


A Lovely Way to Starve

by emily (VoodooCircuitboard)



Category: SpongeBob SquarePants (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bands, Alternate Universe - Human, Depression, Drama, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Road Trips, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-01-08 02:37:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12245433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoodooCircuitboard/pseuds/emily
Summary: It’s summertime in Bikini Bottom and Squidward’s got nothing but bad breakup memories and hisillustriousjob as a cashier, so he might as well slum it with SpongeBob for eight whole weeks and take their indie band on tour. Meet Mermaid Brigade, nobody’s favorite band! It’s the “Hello Bikini Bottom!” AU literally no one asked for!





	1. The Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is my first squidbob creation, even though I’ve liked the ship since, like, 2009. I hope you like travel stories with a lot of sex, lmao. I’m so nervous about contributing to this cute fandom, I’ve put off posting for so long. Haha, I feel so shy, it’s making me sick, ahhh. Chapter dedication to [@shirohibiki](http://shirohibiki.tumblr.com/) and [@nikonet-san](https://nikonet-san.tumblr.com/), whose names I used this chapter!
> 
>  **Chapter warnings:** adult language, adult concepts, drug and alcohol references 
> 
> [AU Information](http://spngbb.tumblr.com/ALWayS/)   
>  [Chapter One Notes](http://spngbb.tumblr.com/ALWayS/Ch1)

Poverty itself is [romanticized] only by fools  
-JK Rowling

**_A Lovely Way to Starve_ **

**Chapter One:** The Proposal

**Friday, June 26, 2015**

On the road, SpongeBob writes in his small black notebook. He has his shoes off, legs pulled up, bag in the footwell. He travels light—the only things in his giant duffel are his neatly bundled outfits, small bags of toiletries, a shell phone, and a phone card that’s snapped in half. And he’s got that notebook and his favorite pen, the one he lifted on his last visit to the hospital. _I’m anticipating picking up a lot on our adventure_ , he had told Squidward when getting into the boat. He has a grape colored bruise on his bare knee, souvenir from some other adventure back home.

Squidward has looked into SpongeBob’s notebook before—timed it so he wouldn’t get caught, because he’s so intruded upon by virtue of knowing SpongeBob that he’s owed whatever small thrill he can get. He didn’t publicize his actions, since the hypocritical company he inadvertently keeps demonizes him for privacy invasion whilst partaking themselves. He simply picked the book up, thumbed dogeared pages, discovered inane poems and almost-lyrics and marks in the margins to keep track of the phone card’s remaining minutes. Nothing finished, nothing special. So now, as SpongeBob writes, Squidward doesn’t wonder what about, nor does he suspect a message meant for himself.

It’s getting darker, and soon, it will be difficult to keep writing. SpongeBob chews on his pen distractedly, scrubbing his eyes under his glasses. Squidward will be mad if SpongeBob falls asleep while he has to keep driving. He accommodates SpongeBob as it is, keeping the radio off. He’s been listening to SpongeBob hum. Squidward minds it a little less, SpongeBob always humming or singing, because it’s their songs now. Besides, he’s saving turning the radio back on for when SpongeBob irritates him and he wants to show that he doesn’t care about what SpongeBob has to say.

Mermaid Brigade is no one’s favorite band, except maybe SpongeBob’s. Boys Who Cry still outrank Mermaid Brigade for Squidward. SpongeBob is a good singer, but Squidward’s used to hearing his neighbor’s voice and associating it with being exhausted and harried and annoyed. Why the fuck are they on this tour? Oh, yeah. Even Squidward can’t delude himself enough, can’t side-step in grocery store aisles to make sure he doesn’t bump into Squilvia, can’t mark up a Bikini Bottom map of all the places he can no longer go. He’d rather fucking die—he’d rather go anywhere in the world with SpongeBob. Alas.

They’ve been making songs together for around a year now, but Squidward has only been obsessed with Mermaid Brigade the last few months in particular, and everybody knows why.

Mr. Krabs wasn’t thrilled that they decided to rep themselves, but when he realized promoting them would be cost prohibitive, and that mandatory vacation time had accrued, yet again, he let them off for the summer. Pearl and Patrick are filling in for Squidward and SpongeBob, respectively, at the Krusty Krab for the next eight weeks. Squidward isn’t convinced he and SpongeBob are in the clear, though; he expects a phone call from Mr. Krabs, begging them to return, once he gets sick of their replacements—or once they get sick of him. Pearl sorta hates the joint.

SpongeBob goes quiet. He passes his pen back and forth between his hands.

“You can . . . you know, keep humming, or whatever,” Squidward says. “It’s practice, after all.”

“You want to listen to our CD?” SpongeBob offers instead. He pulls the CD out of the glove compartment, presuming Squidward will answer in the affirmative. “It has the music . . .”

“Yeah, sure.”

SpongeBob pushes the CD into the player and their first song starts.

“This one’s my favorite,” SpongeBob sighs. Squidward is going to hear that sentence every song. Well, they _are_ pretty great. That’s what happens when you have Squidward Tentacles in your band! He might have mixed every song in freeware with his ancient Mackerel Book, but he’s such a master craftsman and they all sound professional, of course.

“Just sing, SpongeBob.”

“ . . . _you make me smile with my heart_ . . .”

SpongeBob’s surprisingly not the worst travel companion when he’s like this, sleepy, his lilting voice matching the recording.

Okay, this isn’t the worst idea to ever idea. Probably.

-

“This is the place,” Squidward says. He parks in a guest lot by the cluster mailboxes. “They’re gonna be Apartment 202 in Building A.”

SpongeBob yawns. “I saw Building A over by the front gate.”

“Well, get walking then.”

SpongeBob steps into his shoes, opens the passenger side door, and swivels so his feet hit the concrete. He hoists his bag over his shoulder. “You’ve got it!” He’s off, leading the way, before Squidward has even undone his seatbelt.

Squidward exhales loudly. He closes his eyes for several seconds, trying to go to a Happy Place. Can’t go to a Happy Place if you hate everywhere, even your own mind, fool.

All right.

He’s got to get the cooler and suitcase he has stowed behind the driver’s seat—luckily they’re both rollers. He gets his shit together and runs after the kid. Once he’s caught up, he slows, and observes their surroundings. He can see building numbers and windows, illuminated by complex lights. He can see into ground floor apartments, through their open patio doors. Someone with gauzy white curtains and Comedy & Tragedy Masks as outdoor wall décor is watching _House Fancy_. “After my own heart,” he mutters.

Building A is next to a fenced pool. “This is swanky for an indie band,” SpongeBob declares, headed for 202’s stairs. He pronounces swanky like _swain-kay_.

“It’s a buncha college students splitting the rent—probably have their parents’ money. Help me get this stuff up.”

“Ah, this is so exciting! We got new friends waiting for us right inside!”

SpongeBob grabs the handle of one roller and runs up the remaining steps. He knocks. Squidward hustles to be by SpongeBob’s side.

There’s a noise behind the door, and when it opens, Squidward sees the most beautiful octopus he has ever laid eyes on. Just, wow. He’s always kinda liked girls who wear liquid eyeliner like that—who do that crisp, classy wing thing. He’s always had the disease of falling for every single person he meets. In Bikini Bottom, there’s no new faces. On tour, he’s gotta be cautious.

“Squilzabeth?” Squidward asks.

“Squidward?” She says. “You made it. Come in, come in! Come meet everyone!” She ushers the two of them inside. SpongeBob saves himself from tripping over the clutter of shoes in the entrance by grappling at Squidward, pulling him down a little, thus making them both look stupid and awkward. “Whoa, you okay there?”

“Oh, definitely.” Squidward drawls. “Always the epitome of class, this one.” He points a thumb toward the short blond. “This would be SpongeBob.”

“Pleasure to meet you, madam!” SpongeBob greets, exuberant, even while running on fumes. “We appreciate you guys letting us stay here.”

It’s a small place and he and SpongeBob have to share a pull-out couch in the living room. They’re funding this tour by themselves, so saving the money on lodging is definitely worth it. Not that it’s completely free—turns out the Krusty Krab is popular outside of Bikini Bottom, so the cooler has ten Krabby Patties amongst various drinks. Mr. Krabs loaded them up, once he was satisfied he’d get _at least_ $10 each when the pair returned home. SpongeBob had assured Mr. Krabs he would charge their benefactors, but Squidward knows he won’t and that SpongeBob alone will pay for them. Deferred payment; a Krusty Krab unsubsidized loan.

“Hey guys!” Squilzabeth yells, facing the hallway. “They’re here! Meet Mermaid Brigade . . . You guys can bring your stuff right through here,” she adds, talking to Squidward and SpongeBob again.

Once they’re brought into the main area, Squidward feels pure ice blasting from the air conditioner. It’s a sweltering June, but Squilzabeth’s three housemates are wearing hoodies. Big city luxury. He puts his stuff up against a wall, and SpongeBob follows suit.

“Hey, I’m Chris,” says the guy in kitchen. He throws a drink bottle over the counter into the living room, and another guy catches it. “Holy shrimp, do you really have Krabby Patties with you?” He nods at the cooler.

“We sure do!”

“I hyped them to Steph. They’re so good, I don’t care how much they cost—”

“These are on the house,” SpongeBob grins. Squidward knew it!

“You are so awesome, little dude,” Chris says.

Everyone converges in the kitchen. Chris passes Krabby Patties around.

“So you’re Dolphin Safe Tuna?” SpongeBob asks. “Nice to meet y’all!” Sandy’s influence?

“Hey, bro! Everyone just calls us DST.”

DST has four members: Squilzabeth, Stephanie, Chris, and DJ Dolph Dolphin. They’re all in their twenties, Squidward guesses. They look like a band: cool, fashionable, all rather attractive. There’s not a lot of people in Squidward’s life who are taller than him, but he has to look up at DJ Dolph Dolphin when they’re talking. Chris is generically good-looking, Stephanie is generically good-looking. To Squidward, everyone is always better looking than him, even if it’s generically.

They make him feel old.

Everyone is very welcoming, but it’s overwhelming. He’s tired to the point he’s ready to sleep standing up. He sees the pull-out couch, all dressed with blankets and pillows, and he wants nothing more than to crash in it, but he has to pretend he cares about meeting all these people because they’re being generous to him and he doesn’t have an out for this situation. He tries to telepathically tell SpongeBob he wants to get away from everyone and sleep, could SpongeBob, please, steer the conversation toward a close? He doesn’t think SpongeBob hears these thoughts, though.

Oh, SpongeBob. He’s so at home already, like he and DST are long lost friends catching up with one another, enumerating experiences, updating on past loves, assuring that mom is still doing well, same house, finally finished that quilt. Squidward would care a lot more if he felt anything other than exhaustion. He’s never known how to deal with groups like this. He’s never had much experience making friends, especially gregarious ones. SpongeBob has the energy of a boatload of people; he should get some credit for getting this far.

“Do you want something to drink?” Squilzabeth asks him. He’s not sure what answer will expedite bedtime.

“Sure, thanks,” he decides on. He nudges SpongeBob, who looks up at him, smiles, and is then again distracted by Chris raving about the freaking Krusty Krab. SpongeBob gets to gush about their godforsaken workplace, too:

“. . . I’m going to be the manager someday! Mr. Krabs, the proprietor of the Krusty Krab and my dear boss, he . . .”

Blah blah blah.

Squilzabeth gives Squidward a cup of water, and he sits at the kitchen island, opposite her. She seems to get his mood and looks sympathetic. “You must be dead tired.”

“Been a long day,” he tells her. “Our tightwad boss had us work right until close before letting us head out. Some days, it’s bustling, other days, it’s a drag. They’re both uniquely horrible.”

She nods and hums in acknowledgment. “I know what you mean. Everything is always hectic exactly when you don’t need it to be. Even with my job, one of those be-your-own-boss platforms.”

“Uh, what do you do?” Squidward asks, so he doesn’t come off too self-involved. He wouldn’t ask in any other circumstance. He hopes she doesn’t tell him something that’ll test his acting ability.

“I’m a Dryft driver,” she says. “It’s pretty okay for the most part. You get your asshole customers every now and again, but you don’t have to stay with them too long, so it’s no big deal.”

“That’s cool,” he tells her. He’s a pretty skilled driver and he thinks he could be good at a job like that. He can see himself, in an alternate universe, driving important people around and being adored, making connections. Not that he’ll ever look into it. He never gets beyond the ‘that’s cool’ stage of anything. He accepts he works a shit job and will forever work his shit job. He is thankful he doesn’t have to fake his responses to her, in any case.

Odd that he somehow thinks less of himself for his fast food job, but readily accepts that these kids’ day jobs are just that: day jobs. It is sorta hard to think of Mermaid Brigade as a ‘real’ band, still.

“Do you get flak for being a woman?”

“Not as much as you’d expect. It’s usually at night, with groups of drunk guys. I try to avoid that kind of situation, but you don’t really know what you’re gonna get until you rock up to the pickup.”

Squidward nods. Squilzabeth is an exceptional beauty—not that that excuses lewd behavior, but he does see why people would be fascinated by her. Squidward ardently despises the kind of guys who make women uncomfortable or afraid, however. “May your future customers always be sober and copacetic.” He raises his water at her in salute, assured that he is nothing like aforementioned guys because he knows a word like copacetic, for one. He _ardently_ despises those kinds of guys, for two.

Squilzabeth clinks her glass with his. Squidward notices an X tattoo on her arm, where the sleeve is riding up.

“Straight edge?” He asks.

“Oh, my tat?” She pushes her sleeve up so he can see the entire thing. “Yeah. DST is straight edge—we don’t care if other people drink or whatever else, but none of us do that kind of stuff.”

“I guess I always sorta think of bands as a sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll operation. A stupid assumption, considering that I’m in a band with _SpongeBob_. Even he drinks, though.”

“You’ll find some like that, in this kinda thing, for sure. We’re not all like that.” She laughs. “SpongeBob doesn’t look like someone who likes to party, just saying.”

“You should see him around Christmas. He can really knock ‘em back. Drunk SpongeBob has been a source of entertainment for the entire town these last few years.”

“I’ve always heard that sponges were lightweights.”

Squidward opens his eyes wide and nods emphatically.

“Haha. Maybe keep an eye on him when you’re at shows, then. ‘Sharing is caring,’ especially at NiKoNet. The worst shit looks like candies.”

“Candies?”

“Yeah, that’s the E. They’re really cute—they look like FweeFweestones Vitamins. You know the chewable ones?”

“Oh dear, that’s exactly the kinda thing he’d unquestioningly take,” Squidward says.

“Don’t want the guy to fail a drug test when vying for that manager job.”

Great, babysitting SpongeBob. Their relationship just _has_ to keep expanding to include new and interesting ways to annoy him. He’s not a parent, he’s never wanted to be a parent, to look after someone else, but what benefits SpongeBob might benefit him. He doesn’t know what to think.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him.”

-

Squidward comes back from the bathroom in his pajamas. He gets into bed next to SpongeBob.

SpongeBob writes in his little notebook again. He mumbles something out loud, taps his pen to his mouth, looks straight up to the ceiling like he’s searching for answers there.

“SpongeBob, do you mind turning off the light?” Squidward asks, his yawn making him teary-eyed.

“No problem, Squidward. Just gotta text Patrick and Sandy and let them know we got here safely . . .” SpongeBob pulls his flip shell phone back from an end table that’s doubling as a nightstand. SpongeBob has such a garbage phone—it can’t even access the internet! Squidward takes a moment to mentally list out the ways his own phone is superior. It makes him smile.

He shuts his eyes. It feels like millennia pass, but when he looks at SpongeBob, still texting, yeah, it’s gotta be less than a minute.

SpongeBob’s notebook is open, and Squidward sees glimpses of his newest additions, although lines are cut off by the curling pages trying to pull the cover closed.

 _I like to write songs that . . ._  
_the perfect way to say . . ._  
_Who else could love_  
_the broken and brand new?_  
_In my words, where my . . ._  
_a fugitive of this . . ._

Who cares? He misses writing in his own book. It’s a memoir . . . maybe. He’s not sure what exactly it’ll be, but he does know it’ll be cataclysmic. Yes, that good. He’s been scripting it out, brilliant lines, all day:

_Ah, the starving artist. Is there a nobler profession?_

_It is the obligation of the artist to share their art with the world._

_He was born to create art. This octopus was gifted with fine art and musical talent. He found opposition and ignorance everywhere he turned—a handicap from the gods to keep him in the realm of the uncultured. Without such a handicap, he would be nigh unstoppable._

SpongeBob turns off the light and adjusts himself. For one second, some freezing part of him touches Squidward. Squidward’s too tired to do much but say, “Relax, SpongeBob.”

“Sorry, Squidward.”

SpongeBob’s restless. He keeps wiggling, despite his apology.

“You’re so cold,” Squidward huffs. “Go to sleep.”

He’s a hypocrite. He’s so excited about tomorrow’s gig, he notices he’s smiling to himself in the dark. Why didn’t he fall asleep instantly? He needs to get his beauty sleep to do his best. All the preparation in the world won’t save him from disaster. He knows how his life goes. He’ll get struck by lightning, eventually.

Squilvia . . .

Squidward and Squilvia have been on long drives to nowhere for picnics, to museums and gallery openings, events where you _schmooze_ ; back when his life was good and he got to wear tuxedos and drink champagne on the weekends. He’s fallen! He drinks battery acid slushies from gas stations now, is going to slum it with the world’s most annoying sponge.

He tries to ignore his secret fantasy that Squilvia will be at tomorrow’s show, or that she’ll see clips of him online, or somehow find out about his tour and be impressed and call or text him. He’s looked at the same three words for months:

Block this Caller

He can’t. He only had one day of righteous anger when he blocked her number, but now, she can message him, no problem—What _if_ she messaged on that one, blocked day? And no use in deleting her contact info; he’ll never forget her number.

Not a single Mermaid Brigade song is about her! He’s doing fine, obviously.

How fucking dumb.

Night is the worst. He can’t lie down and let sleepiness take over. No matter how exhausted he is, nighttime is when he has thoughts of her and he can’t ignore them. He tries to think of something else, tries to concentrate on SpongeBob. He pushes out one thought, another one bleeds in. He starts to fall asleep and it gets harder to control his thoughts—they deceive him, get to a point where they don’t make sense, and he’s forgotten something, oh, and she’s there now, how nice, didn’t he know that he dreamed their entire breakup and they’re actually married now?

Everything is wonderful.

**Saturday, June 27, 2015**

Squidward wakes before everyone else and it’s sweet and quiet and blissful. SpongeBob is tranquil beside him and it’s the right kind of cold in the living room. He hears scallop tweets outside, lawn maintenance some buildings over. He wishes he could stop time for everyone but himself, for a few hours, so he could get up, shower, and eat breakfast slowly. Maybe read the newspaper. Just enough relaxation to get him prepped for tonight, and then he’d let time restart and he’ll have accomplished so much before anyone got up.

The light filtering in through the blinds makes SpongeBob’s blond hair glow white. Now that he’s looking, Squidward can see the dark regrow, only a few millimeters long, coming in. SpongeBob’s not a natural blond. Hm.

It’s weird to wake up next to somebody. It’s been months since Squilvia moved out. Oh shit, shit shit shit shit! She is absolutely the last thing he needs to think about, especially today. He struggles with that familiar ache before he starts trying to think of something else—SpongeBob isn’t a natural blond, right? He’s never really known other guys that dye their hair . . . women, mostly . . . he can’t stop thinking about her . . . when he’s not thinking about her, he’s thinking about how not to think about her, which means he’s thinking about her, and . . . fuck, it’s hopeless. Worse, he remembers his dream now. He can’t get a reprieve, not in sleep. Why is it that your troubles follow you, even there?

He coughs and darts out a finger to poke SpongeBob’s dyed-ass head, hoping to rouse him. He succeeds, thankfully.

“Are you okay?” SpongeBob asks, voice slow and groggy. It’s just a polite question, sure, but Squidward can’t handle it. He _hates_ being asked if he’s okay or all right: nope!

“Oh, I’m fine. You were the one talking in your sleep,” Squidward lies.

“Mmhmm. Okay.” He’s quiet for long enough after saying this that Squidward thinks he must have fallen back asleep, but, finally, he asks, “what time is it?”

“I don’t know. Sun’s still coming up.”

“It’s weird . . . not having my alarm clock.”

Squidward snorts. That’s what usually wakes his ass up, too.

“Did you sleep okay?” SpongeBob asks.

“Eh, sure, yeah. Kept dreaming it was already tonight and we were being chased off stage by a lynch mob. You know, the usual.”

SpongeBob chuckles a little. It’s a quiet thing. Squidward is shocked he finds it a bit endearing. “Don’t worry, Squidward. It’ll be so much fun, whatever happens.”

“Of course you think that. Nothing ever goes wrong for you.” This is one more adventure for SpongeBob. For Squidward, this is his last hurrah. If this fails then he fails and his whole life is a giant failure.

“It’ll be perfect,” SpongeBob insists.

What a thing to say—not ‘it’ll be fine,’ but _perfect_. Squidward doesn’t get that type of optimism. Anytime he felt excitement about anything, something horrific happened to extinguish it. He tries not to let optimism get that far along in his head, nowadays. “Hope so.”

SpongeBob rolls towards Squidward so they’re facing one another.

“Are you regretting this?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“I mean, not just the tour, but being here, right now, with me.”

“Well, don’t give me a reason, but yeah, no, whatever, it’s fine.”

“Squidward, I promise you that if you give me a chance, I’ll never let you down. I’ll do my best every time we’re on stage.”

“That’s nice.”

“Come on, Squidward.”

“SpongeBob, I want to tell you something. It’s kinda why I’m here, and, uh, why being here is hard for me.”

“Squilvia, right?”

“Is it that obvious?” Squidward asks, incredulously.

SpongeBob shrugs. “A little, yeah,” he admits. “You were together for years. It’d be strange if you were already over it.”

“I’ve been thinking about her a lot. That’s not the bad part—it makes me think of other people who’ve left . . . Neptune, some of our stops take us right through places that are hard for me to be in.” Squidward sighs. “I didn’t want to be this candid, but I’m stuck with you for two months, so I might as well talk to you.”

“She didn’t like me.”

“Ha! You’re right—she totally didn’t.”

“Squidward . . . what happened? I never knew . . .”

“Um. It’s. Ah, we. We had problems, uh, you don’t notice—I—I can’t really talk about this—I know I said I’ll talk to you, but this—” Squidward pushes his face into the pillow so he doesn’t have to maintain eye contact.

“I’m sorry!” SpongeBob interrupts. “I’m so sorry, Squidward. You don’t have to tell me. I was being invasive and I know I can be out of touch about these kinda things—I swear, I wasn’t trying to reanimate your grief. I realized right after asking that it was the wrong thing to do. Forgive me?”

“Yeah, okay, sure.” Squidward faces SpongeBob again, placated. If SpongeBob has the decency to lay off, well, good.

“It’s just that . . . I wish I better understood what you’re going through, so I can be a better friend to you.” SpongeBob says, then he whispers, “how does it feel?” Squidward suspects that part wasn’t supposed to be audible.

“SpongeBob, it feels like scraping a vegetable peeler against the heart.”

SpongeBob winces. “. . . Maybe when we play in those places, we’ll make new memories and you’ll think back to it and be happy instead.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I’m glad you’re giving Mermaid Brigade a chance.”

“I did the songs _and_ the album art. Clearly, this is an admirable endeavor.”

“If you think that, then why are you so worried about the show?”

“We don’t have a good track record, and this is a thing for a buncha bands. Guaranteed we’re the only ones there that no one has heard of before. Not a soul will be there to see us.”

“Going on this tour is gonna help us out so much! I’m sure once people hear our music, they’ll be hooked! Uh, not literally. That would be bad.” He starts to laugh. Squidward stops him by holding a hand to his mouth. He doesn’t want the first thing DST hears today to be SpongeBob’s laugh, poor bastards.

When SpongeBob’s laughter dies down, Squidward pulls his hand back.

“What did I say?” SpongeBob asks.

“What did you say? What do you mean? About getting hooked?”

“You said I was talking in my sleep.”

“Oh, that. ‘Order up, Squidward!’ Krusty Krab dream.”

“Sounds right, haha.”

Squidward thinks of something more to say, but is grateful SpongeBob fills the silence instead.

“Squidward, real talk: this tour means a lot to me, too. I want you to know that if you’re going to make this your last hurrah, if you’re going to approach this whole thing sincerely, then I am absolutely devoted to doing the same.”

“ _Devoted?_ ”

“Devoted.” SpongeBob slides a hand across the pillows.

Squidward stares at SpongeBob’s hand. Slowly, Squidward pushes his hand against SpongeBob’s in a sort of lazy, resting high five. “Devoted,” he repeats. It’s a vow, to make these upcoming weeks, the last hurrah, so important it _hurts_.

Squidward hears the sounds of people getting up: sleepy mumbling, doors opening and closing. He’s got a few precious minutes before he’s gotta start the act that is his life. He closes his eyes and prays for that time-stopping ability, but it never comes and soon he’s saying ‘good morning’ to DST and helping SpongeBob collapse the pull-out so their shit isn’t taking up the whole living room.

Well, it’s on then.

-

The apartment is abuzz with energy and everyone is crazy about tonight. There’s a line for lukewarm showers and a couple of pots of Chris’ bad coffee. No one has the heart to call him out on it, but even SpongeBob uses way more sugar than normal. Squidward always finds it funny when SpongeBob has any thought that isn’t blindly agreeable. He coughs to hide his amused laugh.

Chris cooks breakfast for Squidward and SpongeBob, because DST have leftover Krabby Patties. SpongeBob looks jealous of the Patties, but Chris cooks better than he makes coffee, and Squidward appreciates it.

Flanked by kids in their twenties, Squidward feels remarkably old. How did it come to this? He went from a dreamer, like the members of DST, to a curmudgeonly old man yelling about those damn kids on his lawn. Shit, he’s so old that his favorite black tea now gives him heartburn. These kids are slamming coffee, then reaching for energy drinks; it makes him queasy imagining doing the same.

Squidward suspects that Stephanie is flirting with SpongeBob. SpongeBob actually has the grace to act modest and shy when Stephanie compliments him or teases him about his idiosyncrasies. Maybe SpongeBob doesn’t know how to handle romance, and, now that Squidward’s thinking about it, SpongeBob has never had a romantic relationship with somebody, not since Squidward has known him—sandwiches aren’t somebodies. Shit, even Squidward has dated a few people. He thinks SpongeBob had a crush on Sandy at one point. He’s only not certain because SpongeBob is so _SpongeBob!_ He knows that SpongeBob treats most people like they’re his best friend, and while his best friend is definitively Patrick, he uses the same friendship nomenclature on Squidward and Sandy, too.

He thinks SpongeBob has a crush on h—he just decides to end this thought before it blossoms into a full worry. Aren’t there better reasons to get an ulcer?

Squidward suffers his coffee and watches SpongeBob and Stephanie wash the breakfast dishes. They seem happy . . . _Really_? Is his brain _really_ going to make him get emotional over the domestic shit he used to do with Squilvia? It would be great if he could see two people washing freaking plates without getting heartbroken.

Squidward was sidetracked by these thoughts that, for a moment, the anxiety about performing tonight was forgotten. He’s screwed now that it crosses his mind. Will he fuck up on stage? Will he get booed by their audience? Will everyone think he’s a loser old man trying to cling to his youth by infiltrating the music sphere of the young?

His head hates him so much that he gets to have double the stress for his first Mermaid Brigade concert. “Go me,” he says into his coffee cup.

-

“She’s my sister’s friend, not mine,” Squilzabeth says.

“Yeah, but in that same vein, you didn’t have to show us any kindness since we’re sorta affiliated with your sister, not you. Like, maybe you have to hate us since your sister does.”

“Nah, it’s chill, I don’t give a shit about your love life drama. We’re in the same circuit now, anyways. We’re friends outside of them. I don’t ‘have to hate’ anyone.”

“That’s a relief. We really do appreciate the hospitality.”

“It’s not like we’re rivals or what-the-barnacles-ever. We’re in this shit together.”

“Squilvia wasn’t into this kinda music,” Squidward says by means of moving the convo along, but it’s something he regrets instantly. She was already sorta the subject, but could he not? He probably looks like an idiot to DJ Dolph Dolphin. “She liked, uh, classy music. I’ve always been good at playing various styles, jazz, but also contemporary stuff, and she just.” He stops right in the middle of his sentence.

DJ Dolph Dolphin says, “Yeah, it’s nice to date someone with the same music tastes. My girlfriend is in White Echoes and they’re going to be performing tonight, too. We usually overlap with our shows.” It surprises Squidward none that DJ Dolph Dolphin has a girlfriend. He doesn’t know why that bothers him, a little, in his guts—that’s the real surprise. DJ Dolph Dolphin is such a cool fucking dude—of course he’s dating somebody. Being around him is relaxing. He’s kind of like an inverse SpongeBob. Why does no one like DJ Dolph Dolphin live in Bikini Bottom? Well, there’s Larry, Squidward supposes, but Squidward fucked up any chance of them being friends, so.

“She sorta sounds like a bitch, anyways,” Stephanie says. Squidward is grossed out by someone talking shit about Squilvia, even if he’s thought similar things to make himself feel better.

“I never met her,” DJ Dolph Dolphin says. “Sucks you broke up, man, but shit happens. It’s whatever.”

“Yeah . . . Thanks. I guess.”

“Are you all right?”

Squidward jolts. Why does this innocuous question always make him want to cry? “Honestly, I’m not sure.” The two reasons he doesn’t go the distance and wear hoodies with garish text announcing he’s _never okay_ are being older than fifteen and having a sophisticated sense of style befitting an artist. Wear a trendy hoodie? Haha, only in a nightmare. He’s anything but passé.

“Squilvia aside, you worried about tonight?” DJ Dolph Dolphin asks.

“I guess so. I don’t have the best track record with live performances,” he confesses bitterly. Moving beyond Squilvia as a topic is a small victory.

“Don’t stress, bro. These crowds are easy. They’re coming out to drink, listen to music, and relax. We’ve fucked up before, and no one gave a shit.”

“That’s reassuring.” Squidward’s not sure whether or not he’s being sarcastic with this reply. For real, it’s nice to be reassured, but there are no magical words that are going to kill his stress. When he was younger, a classmate told him a way to stop nerves: ‘writing’ your fears on your palm with a fingertip, then ‘swallowing’ them—basically eating water. Spoiler: it doesn’t fucking work. He never found a viable way to tamp down anxiety before doing something. He’s just got to do it and hope he makes it out unscathed.

“Try to have a good time.”

“Yeah . . .” Squidward doesn’t know how to have a good time anymore. At least he knows that SpongeBob won’t let him down. “SpongeBob!” He yells.

“Yes sir!” SpongeBob, now moving away from the sink, salutes him.

“You ready to practice for tonight?”

“I sure am! I’m ready, I’m ready, I’m—”

“Great,” Squidward shushes him. “Let’s leave soon so we can get in some practice with everybody else at the club.”

-

Mermaid Brigade and DST take their own boats to the venue, a nightclub in historic Ibro City, which, despite its name, is not a city, but rather a New Kelp City neighborhood. Squidward knows it’s a party district because it’s not quite one in the afternoon and people are walking around in micro-dresses and heels. He counts three tattoo shops from his vantage at a stoplight.

Squidward pulls into a parking garage that has an elevator straight out to the street. He and SpongeBob cross as they please, cutting off boats, until they make it to a central square where DST is unloading their van. The club’s name is written in chalk on a stand out front: Club NiKoNet.

SpongeBob jumps up and down enthusiastically. “Wowie! This is coral!” That’s him trying to sound ‘down with the kids.’

Squidward gets a look in the van once Chris jumps out, a cardboard box in hand. The van is modified and there are shelves built into the walls that fold up.

“It can fit our instruments and all of us—we fit stuff there and there, and the shelves become beds.” Chris motions out storing and sleeping after he passes his box to a girl with rainbow hair. It’s just like that puzzle video game with the colored blocks . . . or a regular puzzle, if you will. Yeah, it’s Squidward’s lame turn at trying to sound down with the kids, thankfully not aloud. Anyways, Squidward has never seen something so ingenious outside of Plankton. This van is exactly a plucky movie kid invention.

“This is Manic, our promotor. She comes to most of our shows. She came on our last tour.” Stephanie introduces, as she takes a guitar case out of the van.

Manic, the girl with the rainbow hair, nods in acknowledgment.

“You can fit five in this van?” Squidward asks Chris.

“Yep.”

“Damn.”

“You got your merch?” Manic asks Squidward. “I’ll help with the selling. Chris told me this is your first time.”

“Uh, yeah. We got a box in the backseat. We’ll get it in a minute. We’re gonna help DST load in,” Squidward says. Manic nods and walks out of view.

They take DST’s instruments inside and line everything up with other bands’ things, backstage.

The club is already crowded when Squidward looks around. The other bands are messing with the sound equipment, talking to the sound guy—the most important person here, according to DJ Dolph Dolphin.

“Everyone’s chronic, just make sure, above all, you’re cool to the sound guy,” he had said. “He can fuck you over if you’re a dick.” Squidward didn’t know what 'chronic' meant in that context. He knew it could be drug slang, but it didn’t seem right in that instance. He didn’t ask for clarification, regardless.

He sees the merchandise table and Manic talking to a few other people, all of them arranging T-shirts and CDs into rows.

DJ Dolph Dolphin is talking and laughing with some hot girl—oh shit, that must be the girlfriend. Well, damn. She, like every other performer here, is gorgeous and younger than him. SpongeBob, closer to thirty, looks as young. Squidward feels like an interloper. He’s waiting for the moment when he’s treated like staff instead of a fellow performer.

SpongeBob jumps between wires currently crossing all over the ground.

“It’s not hopscotch, Sponge,” Squidward cautions. “Don’t trip.”

“Okay, Squidward!”

SpongeBob gets out of the way when Band One starts plugging things in. The sound guy walks around them with a tablet. Squidward sees a pit area with a switchboard right in front of the stage. Mermaid Brigade is doing their check fourth, and that imminence makes Squidward shake.

“Let’s go get our stuff.” _And some fresh water_.

-

Squidward and SpongeBob get their shit together. Squidward has the computer bag and the musical instrument cases, and SpongeBob has the merch box, with some sort of zippered pouch atop it. They walk through the streets with their shit and when in the club, Squidward hops up on stage so he can go to the back. SpongeBob waddles on over to Manic, peeping over the light, but awkward load.

There’s an area on the far wall that’s makeshift vanities—mirrors held up by crates—and people are fixing their hair and makeup. DJ Dolph Dolphin said that it’s not always this way—sometimes you’re putting on your emo-ass eyeliner in the bar bathroom, and it smells and the fans are like, just right there.

Squidward sets Mermaid Brigade’s stuff down with the other instruments, but he stays close. He’s in standby mode. Mermaid Brigade’s turn with the sound guy is next.

He can’t stop checking his reflection.

SpongeBob appears in the mirror by Squidward, holding only his zippered pouch. “Amazing! We are gonna be amazing!”

How nice to know that sort of thing. SpongeBob fears nothing. At least one half of their band is enthusiastic. Don’t get your hopes up, don’t get disappointed, Squidward thinks before trying to immediately tell his mind to shut the fuck up and stop being so negative. This entire endeavor is way too hard for him. Why did he decide to do this? They should get right back into the boat and . . .

“You’re up,” Squilzabeth smiles, coming back with part of her drum set in her arms.

SpongeBob puts his bag down and grabs his ukulele case, running out.

Squidward gulps and follows.

-

White Echoes, Band Five, goes on.

Once Mermaid Brigade has put their instruments back in line with everyone else’s, SpongeBob unzips his colorful bag, and pulls out a handful of makeup. “Sit down, Squidward,” he commands. “Let’s get some concealer on you.”

“Do you know how to use that stuff?” Squidward asks, doubtful. He’s seen SpongeBob look something frightening when dressing up.

“Can you tell I’m wearing makeup now?” SpongeBob smiles brightly. His complexion is nice, eyes vibrant. So long as he isn’t trying to be ostentatious, then. Makeup: another thing SpongeBob is good at.

“Wow, no,” well, every real performer has their makeup done before going out on stage. “All right, you’ve got it.” Squidward sits down on the ground, cross-legged, then waves SpongeBob over. “Go sparingly. A face like this doesn’t need much work.”

“Oh, I know!” SpongeBob giggles and goes to him, dropping to the ground with verve. He spills his makeup in between the two of them, then fans it out with his hands. “Even on bad days, you’re the most handsome guy in the room.”

“You’re so full of tartar sauce, SpongeBob.”

“Haha, no way! I wouldn’t lie about something like that.” SpongeBob grabs a green tube and squeezes its contents onto a sponge (ha) applicator. “It’s BB cream,” he informs, once he sees Squidward’s raised brow. “I wouldn’t have the right shade of foundation for you, but this is sheer coverage.”

People walk around them, reach around them. “I’ll do your eyes, too,” SpongeBob says, stippling product on Squidward’s cheek. “You’ll feel more confident. That’s what makeup is for.”

“Yeah, not banking on that . . .” Squidward trails off. He stares at SpongeBob’s bruise. He’s tempted to push his finger into it, or rub foundation onto it, although he does neither.

Having someone do your makeup is calming, like having someone play with your hair. He enjoys it as long as he can, because everything else is working to kill him.

-

“We’re gonna go get some food. Wanna come?” Squilzabeth asks.

Squidward and SpongeBob say variations of “Neptune, yes!” at the same time.

-

The café they go to has a window cling advertisement that says _Espresso Your Love_ above an illustration of a steaming mug. It’s right on a corner, and either side of the entrance has wall fountains. When they walk in, Squidward is pleased to see the tall chairs and marble tabletops, the checkered floor, and the array of overcharged NKC souvenirs by the register. Whoa, further back, there’s shelves of artisanal meats, cheeses, and crackers—it’s also a market! He _loves_ it.

The seven of them, Mermaid Brigade, DST, and Manic, have barely made it to the register before someone at a nearby table says, “DJ Dolph Dolphin, hey!”

DJ Dolph Dolphin spins on his heel towards the direction of his name. “Is that Aspen Angelfish? Hey, girl! You here for the concert?”

“Duh,” she rolls her eyes. Squidward thinks she must be a teenaged groupie. She looks like she fell into mommy’s makeup and liked the smeared result. Since Squidward’s currently wearing makeup, he feels entitled to this assessment. “It’s gonna be so good. Oh, me and Justin are visiting you next week. We got some apartments to look at.”

“That’s great,” DJ Dolph Dolphin says. He doesn’t sound interested. “See you at the show.” He pushes through everyone so that he’s the first to order—he probably just wants to be far enough away from Aspen Angelfish to prevent any further conversation. Squidward hears Aspen Angelfish talk to Squilzabeth, something like “I’m fine with the couch,” but he stops listening and reads the sandwich menu. It’s all gourmet! This is the best place! He can’t eat, though. He feels nauseated from anxiety.

“Do you think we’ll get recognized like that someday?” SpongeBob asks, sidling up next to him. Squidward shifts away.

“You know, I’m surprised no one here recognizes _you_ ,” Squidward tells him. “ _Mayor BrownPants_.”

“Oh that, haha, silly! I parted my hair to the left today!”

“The perfect disguise,” Squidward deadpans. He imagines a laugh track, and once he gets the proper amount of applause, he tells SpongeBob to go order ahead of him. “I’ve got very important café decisions to make . . .”

“Sure thing, buddy!”

-

Big talk for someone who orders black coffee and biscotti. He’s the only one who doesn’t get a meal. Can’t eat _at all_ —a single drink of coffee makes Squidward feel too full and ready to throw up. He puts the biscotti into the cup and leaves it to soak.

The tiny, round tables are more suited for couples on lunch dates, but the group has pushed three of them together and everyone sits squished up against one another. Squidward’s got SpongeBob on his left side, Manic on his right. They’re both sorta on his lap. He doesn’t even know with whom he’s tangled under the tables; everyone’s got their legs up on chair rungs and table legs, except for Squidward and DJ Dolph Dolphin, who are tall enough to sit in these chairs and still put their feet on the floor. He blows at his steaming cup to cover for his impressive sigh.

A hundred little conversations weave together. People next to each other talk, someone from two tables over interjects. SpongeBob’s voice is so loud, but so is Stephanie’s, way over there, in response. Squidward replies to a few questions, but mostly just watches. SpongeBob, at first, makes an effort to include Squidward, but eventually Squidward becomes invisible. Manic bumps into him repeatedly and doesn’t notice or apologize. And, as he suspected she might, Aspen Angelfish makes a spot for herself by DJ Dolph Dolphin, as if she thinks he’s single (he doesn’t know why DJ Dolph Dolphin’s girlfriend didn’t come along, but he doesn’t really care). She also makes herself the topic, dumbfounding Squidward with her audacity. She’s so great, you know? Miss Fortune’s looking for a new front and she’s the main pick— _Don’t buy into this garbage_ , he telepathically urges SpongeBob, _she’s, what, eighteen? These band stories must be fiction. Has three bands vying for her membership? SpongeBob, you’re smarter than this._

SpongeBob says, “Wow! That’s amazing!” Reminded that SpongeBob can’t hear his thoughts, Squidward eats his biscotti so he has something to do with his mouth that isn’t screaming at all these damn kids.

It makes him feel sicker.

-

They’re all walking back to the club when SpongeBob skips up to Squidward and links arms with him. “You okay, pal? You were pretty quiet back there.”

Squidward tries to pull his arm back, but SpongeBob’s got him good. “Eh, yeah. Going to pass out, but yeah. Great. You can let go.”

“I can’t let go if you’re about to pass out!”

Squidward rolls his eyes.

SpongeBob goes on. “You don’t need to be nervous.”

“Thanks, SpongeBob. I’m much better now.”

“I’m going to tell you how I psych myself out, all right? It’ll help, I promise.”

“Don’t tell me to put my worries in my palm and eat them.”

They’ve only got eight seconds left to cross the street and keep up with everyone else, according to the flashing red countdown. SpongeBob slides his hand down Squidward’s arm and grabs his wrist. He runs, pulling Squidward along.

“First of all,” SpongeBob yells over the sound of construction they pass, an area contained to a single upended square of sidewalk, right at the corner. “Accept that there are always going to be people who don’t like you or your art, no matter what you do.” SpongeBob jumps over a small pile of gravel that Squidward scatters with his feet because he can’t control his momentum this way.

“Sorry!—SpongeBob! _SpongeBob!_ ”

Squidward pants when they rejoin the group and SpongeBob slows. “Yeah, Squidward?”

Squidward’s already sweaty and haggard and holy shit he’s going to look terrible on stage! He’s the only person affected by anything! Everyone else is as cool as eating ice cream with a snowman in a freezer in winter—his makeup must be running sticky tracks down his cheeks. “You! Ugh, you. Do _you_ even accept that? That there are people who don’t like _you?_ ” Squidward snaps.

They’re somehow in the middle of everyone, Stephanie and Squilzabeth falling back to point at something in a shop window, Aspen Angelfish darting straight on and away to another set of people.

“Sure.”

“Do you _really?_ ” Squidward squints at him.

“That’s where the second part comes in. So you’ve accepted there are people who hate you and hate everything you touch—”

“ _Hate_ everything I touch?”

“—and now you come to part two: realizing that these people don’t matter.”

“SpongeBob,” Squidward yanks his wrist back. “We’re on tour. We want people to like us.”

“We want the people who like us to like us, not the people who don’t!”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Oh, but it does! The people who won’t like us are _never_ going to like us, so we can immediately ignore them and worry about our people, the people who _will_ like us. They’ll like us for being the genuine article.”

Club NiKoNet’s right there, way too soon. Squidward loses his breath for a moment. “Just gotta talk to SpongeBob real quick,” he says to DJ Dolph Dolphin’s _you coming?_ look. DJ Dolph Dolphin shrugs and he, Manic, and the rest of DST go inside.

Squidward walks into the outdoor center connecting the club, overcharge consignment shops, two bars, an art gallery, and a metal staircase to a second story made up of only restaurants. The only free bench faces the art gallery. Of course it does. Look, it’s just canvases someone flicked a paintbrush at. He could’ve made all of this in his sleep. _But you didn’t, did you, Squiddy?_ he hears in Squilliam’s voice.

It’s bad art and a crowded center because _he’s performing_ for a _full house_ and there are people who _hate_ everything he touches. His whole life is _in italics!_

“Sit by me, SpongeBob.”

“Happy to.” SpongeBob pulls his legs up onto the bench once he sits.

“Just . . . _talk_.”

“My funny valentine / sweet comic valentine / you make me smile with my heart,” SpongeBob sings. He makes a heart shape with his hands.

“Only you, you little weirdo.” Squidward laughs.

SpongeBob grins. “Don’t pass out on me.”

“Right,” Squidward blows up the hair that’s melted into his face. He’s going to need a touch up. “People don’t like me. Said people don’t matter.”

“I’m naïve, but I’m not stupid.”

“Huh?”

“I know that half of Bikini Bottom thinks I’m annoying—or worse.”

“What? You _know?_ ”

“I don’t let it get me down, because their opinions don’t matter.”

“I cannot believe I am hearing SpongeBob SquarePants himself say this.”

“Squidward, you know what happens when people don’t like you? When they don’t like something you’ve done or created?”

“What?”

“Nothing. _Nothing_ happens. You still get to be you and still do what you love.”

“ . . . Suppose so.” It’s certainly true that SpongeBob is uninhibited by Squidward’s dislike.

“When you do what you love, more people will like you for that than not. Which is why my Krabby Patties are so popular.”

“Right, right. You make them with _love_. I’ve choked on it before, I know it well.” His horrible brain provides an additional comment about everyone in town putting SpongeBob’s _love_ into their mouths, but he doesn’t vocalize such an aberration.

Squidward puts a hand up to signify he wants some quiet. He stares at those paintings. He could make art that gets featured in a gallery, but he never does. He could do anything in the world and Squilvia’s old opinions don’t matter, and Squilliam’s voice in his head isn’t real. This is real: it’s too fucking hot and his mascara is making his eyes water. He’s a good musician and his bandmate has faith in him and thinks he’ll do well tonight because he loves music.

Love begets love, or something like that.

“SpongeBob?”

“Yes?”

“ _I’m ready_.”

-

Patrons want to see the other bands, but what the hell! They’re gonna perform for more than a hundred people. It’s stuffed—the few barstools are occupied, and most of them have two people in them—boyfriends on the seat, girlfriends on their laps. Squidward smells sweat and something vivid and sharp—energy drinks. The bar is crazy. The bands get free drinks, but he’s not gonna mess with any of that shit.

Mermaid Brigade is on third, and DST right after. Squidward wishes he could see DST perform before going on, but he’s also glad to get right on playing. Mermaid Brigade is ending on a slower song so DST can start with their newest anthem, then ramp up the mood. He checks, and checks again, to see if his clarinet is good to go—it is, it is, again. There’s nothing but to do it.

“Are you still nervous?” SpongeBob asks him.

“Not really,” he admits.

“We’re going to be somebody’s favorite band someday! They just gotta hear us play!” That’s exactly the lame sorta rhyme Squidward might see in SpongeBob’s notebook. “Starting tonight, Mermaid Brigade is going places. I mean that both literally and figuratively, this time!”

-

Mermaid Brigade’s cover of “My Funny Valentine” is mellow and relaxing. SpongeBob’s got a dynamic voice that expresses emotion well. Squidward loves this song and dreams of what it would be like to have someone sing it for him. True Love is a gimmick to sell books and movies, he thinks. All he wants is someone like the speaker of this song—someone who loves him despite his imperfections. He had it, for a while. But Squilvia left him. It was true love, until it wasn’t. It would be enough, he thinks, to be confident and able to make art about more than himself. In an idyllic world, the one dreamed up by people who think yoga and kelp will cure your depression, there’d be self-love and acceptance, and then he’d find love with another person and everyone would be well-adjusted and enrich each other’s lives. Yeah fucking right. In real life, a little attention can embolden someone. In real life, Squidward has to love himself so much because no one else does.

The real world is implacable.

 _But don’t change a hair for me_  
_Not if you care for me_  
_Stay, little valentine, stay_  
_Each day is Valentine’s Day_

When they end their song, they get applause and cheers, and it’s like a harmonic tremor—he would know—Squidward can feel it through his feet, vibrating.

It’s easy to grab their stuff and slink backstage, euphoria controlling Squidward. His heart is beating so fast, he’s definitely going to die right here. This is like being on top of that tour bus, only amplified. Heh heh, amplified. Amp. Band humor.

Stephanie snatches SpongeBob and brings him near the vanities. They jump up and down, squealing. Squidward hears the emcee talking, and DJ Dolph Dolphin gets in his line of sight, right before DST is supposed to go on.

“That went well,” Squidward sounds astounded as he awkwardly fist bumps DJ Dolph Dolphin, not used to acting like a lame bro.

“Hey, bro, I only got a minute, but I wanted to tell you something. I know you guys are new to the circuit, but you’re local. It’s sorta an unspoken thing, but whenever a local band is going on tour, the other local bands at a show together give their profits to the touring band.”

“Wait, what? Seriously?”

“Yeah, well, gas ain’t cheap, and you’re going to come back from the whole thing in the negatives. I don’t think I ever came back from a tour with more than $500 profit—I know that sorta sounds like a lot, but we were together for six years before we saw shit.”

“That’s so nice . . .”

“You’ll do the same . . . besides, we’re only making like $10 each tonight, so you’re looking at less than $100.”

“No! That’s enough. I’m glad to know there’s, like, a community aspect to this . . . SpongeBob’ll be thrilled.”

“It’s nothing. Nice job—gotta get ready for our turn now. Catch ya.” DJ Dolph Dolphin heads over to the rest of DST, while SpongeBob turns back to Squidward.

“Squidward!” SpongeBob yells, running toward him. Squidward doesn’t notice how he opens his arms for the impending hug. “Ah! We were so good!”

“We were! We’re the best!” Squidward babbles, picking SpongeBob up and spinning him for a second before righting him. “Forget when we were ‘Squidward and SpongeBob.’ This is what it’s really like to be in a band. They loved us! Although we’re neither mermaids, nor a brigade.” He says, no smugness.

“I know!” SpongeBob squeals. “Our brigade of two! Do you think every stop will be like this? I don’t know, I don’t know, I’m going to explode! Neptune, I’m shaking!”

“We didn’t spontaneously combust or anything!”

“Squidward?”

“Yeah?”

“Um.”

“What is it?”

SpongeBob bounces up onto his toes and kisses Squidward. Squidward stumbles backwards, but SpongeBob leans along. It’s nothing like Squilvia; it’s all graceless. It’s nothing like the romance novels; there’s no stopping the world around him. He hears fragments of conversations, laughter, music. He’s too hot and he’s hyperaware. He can feel SpongeBob’s heartbeat through his mouth, against the press of teeth.

SpongeBob makes a quiet sound when he pulls back, and he looks at Squidward, nervously awaiting acknowledgement. This is so surreal—he had no idea that SpongeBob liked him that way—no, no, fuck! Why does he do this? Why does he always lie to himself, even in his own head? He’s known forever.

_He’ll get struck by lightning . . ._

Fuck, though, now someone else matters, someone else can get hurt. They have thoughts and feelings and he can’t pretend otherwise now. After this kiss, the thoughts come to him unbidden and in startling clarity and it’s not easy anymore. Finally, Squidward sees SpongeBob, and he knows—there is no going back or acting like things are fine. Like this trip, it’s _terrifying_. SpongeBob is real, right here, breathing, and Squidward can’t run away from this or he’ll run from everything and this is his last chance and SpongeBob’s kiss was wet and soft and Squidward truly could die.

 _Your looks are laughable_  
_Un-photographable_  
_Yet you’re my favorite work of art_

Why couldn’t SpongeBob keep his crush suppressed? Why did he have to make it weird? Make it real? Squidward and SpongeBob have a precarious dynamic and the whole not-acknowledging-SpongeBob’s-feelings-for-him thing was working fine for Squidward. This is SpongeBob’s fault.

“. . . SpongeBob, look—”

“—Squidward, if you want, if you give me a chance—if you give me a chance, then I’m all in, absolutely devoted.”

“Devoted?”

SpongeBob bites his lip. Squidward looks at the gap between SpongeBob’s front teeth. SpongeBob’s never looked so vulnerable. Squidward plays a mental music video of shit he’s gone through courtesy of SpongeBob, to show himself that _this_ is actually the worst idea to ever idea, _not_ probably; it’s set to joyful classical music, a beautiful contrast to the tragedy of having SpongeBob in so many facets of his life.

“Devoted,” SpongeBob promises.

Squidward has to shut him down, but . . . He can feel the scorch of SpongeBob’s kiss, still on his mouth. It sends sensation throughout his body. And, he is impressed, a little, that SpongeBob siphoned the adrenaline from their performance to ratchet up his courage enough to own his feelings. Feelings fucking suck.

Squilvia said Squidward was always running away from his problems—they go with you everywhere, they are inescapable. But she still smiled when she left, like she was finally free, like it wasn’t going to give him a complex. He was the one that had to wake up that next day, see the teacup magnet—pull it off and stick it to the top of the fridge, so it’s gone, but not—see the loaf pan she bought to make that lemon cake, smell her on the couch and catch her framed face, now critical, sitting by the front door.

_I’m not running away; I’m chasing the dream, because it’s running away from me._

He woke up ragged from the nightmares, ones where he saw her at their restaurant, and they talked until close and fixed everything, and it was just a bad time they could put behind them—wait, no. No, she can never forgive him, not even when he’s lucid and begs for it, rushing before he opens his eyes and has to see his empty room.

_. . . the perfect way to say . . ._

He doesn’t need someone else’s help. He’s never wanted SpongeBob’s affection.

He went through his house, knocking her into a box, the things she tainted with meaning. She’s gone, compartmentalized, but he feeds her. He’s starving from feeding all of himself to the memory of Squilvia.

_Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him._

He’s going to break someone’s heart. It fucks him up, even if that heart is SpongeBob’s.

_Who else could love the broken and brand new?_

“Squidward, will you be mine for the summer?”


	2. SpongeBob and the Calming Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TEARS. A LOT OF TEARS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter dedication to [Kolor](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/133019408) ([@kolorqueendoesntpost](https://kolorqueendoesntpost.tumblr.com/)), whose name I used this chapter!
> 
>  **Chapter warnings:** adult language within narrative, plus one Precision F-Strike in dialogue, adult concepts, discussions of mental health/medication, discussions of sexual orientation, sexual undertones, kissing  
>     
> [AU Information](http://spngbb.tumblr.com/ALWayS/)  
> [Chapter Two Notes](http://spngbb.tumblr.com/ALWayS/Ch2)

a kiss like  
cherries and dirt: as sublime, as corrosively  
filthy  
-Pratyusha Prakash

**_ALWayS_ **

**Chapter Two:** SpongeBob and the Calming Game

“SpongeBob, come dance with me.”

“What?”

“Come on, let’s go out there. DST’s starting.”

“But—”

Squidward pulls SpongeBob by the wrist, same as SpongeBob did to him earlier today. They go around the wall separating them from the crowd. He pushes them straight into the mosh area. It’s so noisy, there’s not a chance they can have a conversation out here. For a second, some audience members embrace the two of them, a sort of welcoming, acknowledgment that Mermaid Brigade was just up there, where DST now stand. Someone claps Squidward on the back, and he’d be thrilled if he wasn’t so distracted.

He’s a gentleman and dances to DST’s anthem slow, holding SpongeBob close. He puts a hand on SpongeBob’s waist, uses his other to put SpongeBob’s hand on his shoulder. SpongeBob looks miserable. He rests his head on Squidward’s chest and stares off to the side. This is a really shitty move on his part, Squidward knows. He thinks it’s cowardly to do this, make it so they can’t talk, but hold SpongeBob in such an intimate way completely out of sync with his intended message: no. I will not be yours for the summer, or for any time period, or ever.

Yeah, a real fucking gentleman.

Squidward fucking sucks. How is he going to handle this? Should he be blunt and do it fast? Say _no_ , _nah_ , _nope_. Okay, he’s had his heart broken and that shit hurts, so he doesn’t have to be too mean about it. A simple _SpongeBob, we can’t_ should be enough. He doesn’t need to add the _are you fucking crazy?_ part. Or the _literally anyone else would be better_ part.

SpongeBob doesn’t last the whole song.

SpongeBob pulls back and says something inaudible. He shakes his head and walks away, slipping deep into the crowd, blending in with all these strangers.

Good, get lost! Squidward was doing SpongeBob a favor. And here Squidward was thinking he was going to be all nice about his rejection. Forget that. Squidward is relieved SpongeBob’s gone.

He waits for SpongeBob a bit, swaying from side to side, but once DST’s song is over and they start their next, he knows SpongeBob isn’t coming back. He should probably find the kid . . . to turn him down properly.

He goes to the merch table. Manic yells when she sees him, “Squidward! Guess what? You sold four CDs so far!”

Four CDs?! Oh Neptune, that’s so great, holy fuck! “Really? Oh, uh, have you seen SpongeBob?”

“What’s that?” She can’t hear him.

“Have you seen SpongeBob?!”

“Nuh-uh. He’s a really good singer—”

“Okay, thank you, uh, I’ll tell him that. Bye.”

He checks the bathroom. Well, SpongeBob’s not in the men’s room . . . dare he look in the ladies’ room . . . he couldn’t . . . He decides to open the door and yell for SpongeBob. Some ladies tell him to get the fuck out and he goes on.

Okay, fuck.

He goes backstage after showing a staff member the stamp on his hand: BAND. No SpongeBob.

He uses the back door and rushes into the alley next to the club. The difference in the water quality is astounding. He didn’t notice how hard it was to breathe inside.

He goes around to the bench across the art gallery. Nope. For some dumb reason, he looks in the gallery windows. Of course SpongeBob isn’t in there. There’s one person in there, a woman wearing all black, as thin as Squidward’s arm. It’s the type of woman who’d never give him a second look unless his art was featured. He turns away before he gives himself yet another reason to hate his life. Always hurting himself with figmentals.

He goes upstairs and looks through all the restaurants. They’re all open, and, in some places, share seating, and though the whole floor is filled with customers and waitresses and night people, not a single one of them is SpongeBob.

He walks to the café from earlier. Should he buy himself comfort chocolate? Okay, this is all shit he shouldn’t have to deal with. He deserves something special . . . okay, no, fine. Fuck that idea. Should he buy SpongeBob something? Here’s your dumb mocha, think of it as a consolation prize. Thanks for playing!

No, that’s fucking asinine. He buys nothing.

He takes his phone out of his pocket, sits at a table by the window. He shoots SpongeBob a text:

_Hey, where are you?_

A FEW  
MINUTES  
LATER

_SpongeBob?_

_SpongeBob, answer me._

SpongeBob doesn’t answer him. SpongeBob also doesn’t do read receipts, so Squidward has no fucking clue if SpongeBob got his messages. Would such a lame burner have that function?

He calls SpongeBob instead of texting him. It rings and goes to voicemail. A recording of SpongeBob greets him happily. Squidward has never heard SpongeBob’s voicemail before, because, although he doesn’t call SpongeBob often, SpongeBob has never not answered him.

It’s not that he’s worried about SpongeBob, like, he knows SpongeBob is fine wherever he is. Squidward just can’t let his bandmate disappear. It’s bad form; the other bands would hate him for it.

Where should he look? SpongeBob could still be at the goddamned club for all Squidward knows, ugh, fuck his life. The club or as far as he could get on foot. He can’t be at DST’s place because it’s a drive—

A drive?

Squidward decides to go to the parking garage.

-

He knows he’s found SpongeBob because a thousand little bubbles float around his boat.

Bubbles fall slowly, bounce with the breeze. It’s like SpongeBob is wrapped in a thousand fairy lights. He’s glowing. He would look stunning if this was a romance story. Squidward loves romances, but this is definitely a horror.

“SpongeBob! I’ve been looking for you everywhere! Did you get my messages?”

“Oh, hey, Squidward.”

“What are you doing?”

“Blowing bubbles,” SpongeBob opens his arms in gesture.

“No, I know that. I mean, why are you here?”

“I didn’t know where to go. It’s locked.”

Oh yeah, Squidward’s got the keys in his pocket. SpongeBob must have had bubbles in his pocket, which, admittedly, isn’t that odd for him. Couldn’t he just make a bubble key or something? Whatever.

There’s so many bubbles, SpongeBob’s fringe is wet. Some bubbles are intact, sitting in his hair. They refract the garage lights and sparkle.

“Why didn’t you stay with me?”

SpongeBob blows more bubbles, a steady stream. They’re beautiful, but.

“SpongeBob, don’t give me the silent treatment.”

“I’m not, though. You ‘dancing’ with me so we can’t talk, that’s the silent treatment.”

“Are you mad?”

“Are _you?_ ”

“Look, you know why we can’t be together in the . . . in the way that you want.”

“I don’t. Why can’t we?”

“Surely you know how I feel about you? You were just telling me you’re not stupid.”

“I’m not, which is why I won’t buy it if you say you hate me. I know you don’t.”

“Oh, but I do, SpongeBob.”

“No, you don’t. You’ve straight told me before that you don’t, you know. You were there.”

“Okay, so hate is a strong word, but I am decidedly not interested in any . . . deeper relationship with you.”

“Why?”

“Should I give you a list?”

“Please do.”

“Okay, so you know how in a bad movie, the two leads hate each other and fight the whole time but they still get together in the end and it’s total barnacles, because that’s not how it works in real life? Sometimes, people who hate each other actually do hate each other and aren’t secretly in love and it’s not even a love story.”

“That’s not a list, but whatever. Yes? I’ve seen movies like that. The point?”

“The point?! You’re asking me the point?! The point is that it’s total barnacles because in real life, when people don’t like each other, they don’t secretly want to be together.”

“But we don’t hate each other.”

“I don’t secretly have romantic feelings for you underneath all this. SpongeBob, you had to know this would happen if you asked me out.”

“I was sorta hoping you’d give me a chance.”

“Why would I?”

“Because things are different now! Because we’re going on this tour and no one knows who we are and we can be anyone and do anything! Because Squilvia is far away and we don’t have to be everything we are back in Bikini Bottom. This is our summer, you know? Right now, we’re rock stars.” A literal wide-eyed optimist, he looks for all the world like he believes this.

“That doesn’t erase all the years I’ve had to suffer because of you! And Patrick, and—”

“Oh, here we go,” SpongeBob says.

“I can’t believe you’re actually angry about this!” SpongeBob doesn’t normally have so much sass, the fuck. This isn’t how Squidward imagined this would go.

“I’m not angry. I’m irritated, and . . . How do you want me to be, Squidward? Do you want to see what my irritation is protecting me from?! Do you want to see me, do you—” SpongeBob starts crying. “Do you want me to cry? I, haha, oh my gosh, I’m crying now . . .”

Oh, no. No, no. “Don’t do that,” Squidward freaks. “Don’t cry.” Now this is something Squidward imagined. Having someone cry right in front of you, knowing full well you’re the cause, is a guttural kind of pain. What did Squidward do to deserve this life? He shouldn’t have to feel bad for not wanting to date his annoying neighbor.

“I can’t stop. Squidward, I’m trying,” SpongeBob covers his face with the hand holding the bubble wand. His tears flow nonstop and soap slides down his hand. He wails like a little kid, “waaaah,” and everything.

“Come on, let’s have fun for tonight, get our stuff, and leave early and start toward our next destination.”

“I don’t want to.”

“We can’t go back to the apartment without DST. We’ve gotta stick around for the rest of the show. You got . . . overwhelmed with all the hype, right?”

SpongeBob shakes his head.

“Let’s . . . talk about things tomorrow, okay?” Squidward hopes he sounds pragmatic. No chill.

“I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to see DST.”

“Fine!” Squidward produces his keys and tosses them at SpongeBob, who is startled by the action and just barely catches them. “You stay here and I’ll go get everything and talk to everyone and take care of all of it without you. I’ll probably have to make multiple trips, since there’s so much to carry. And I’ll talk to DST _all by myself_ and graciously accept the money all the other bands are giving us because we’re touring. I’ll tell them you’re not feeling well.”

“Wait, what? Really? They’re doing that?”

“Yep. Very generous, right?”

“I’ll go with you.”

“That’s what I thought.”

-

They make it back in time to see the last two bands, one of which is White Echoes. Squidward tries to listen to their songs because it’s sorta shitty that, even though DST has so nicely hosted Mermaid Brigade, and even though the other bands are helping them out, Squidward hasn’t checked out many of his contemporaries’ songs. He heard a little when everyone was doing soundchecks, but that happened in a different order and Squidward can’t tell any of these bands apart by sound alone. SpongeBob seems to be familiar with them and mouths out the words while otherwise staying still in the crowd, but he’s a better contemporary to have than Squidward.

It’s a good thing Squidward found SpongeBob, then, huh? So that he doesn’t have to be alone when he interacts with these people . . . so there’s someone there to compliment the other bands while they pass over their money.

-

NiKoNet staff count out $175 for each of the night’s eight acts. It’s more than what Squidward expected, and more than what DJ Dolph Dolphin said it would be, although Squidward gets the impression that pay isn’t usually so equalized. Bigger headcount, bigger paycheck—when there’s pay at all. A band with only two members probably doesn’t come out this clean under normal circumstances.

Despite knowing Mermaid Brigade’s going to get all the money, Squidward is humbled when everyone passes their cash down the line, terminating at DJ Dolph Dolphin, who then extends the stack of $1,225 to him. They now have $1,400.

SpongeBob gasps audibly at Squidward’s side. “Thank you so much! I can’t even think of the words to express how grateful we are.”

“You’re gonna need it, little guy,” DJ Dolph Dolphin says. “Slay the rest of your tour!”

Okay, Squidward is crazy thankful, too. He’s not trying to, but . . . it seems like he’s making . . . _friends_ , or something.

-

After a half hour of mingling with the other bands, thanking them, and sharing phone numbers, Squidward is ready to leave NKC. He and SpongeBob follow DST back to their apartment so they can collect their stuff.

“You can stay here another night, it’s no big deal,” Stephanie says.

“No thanks,” Squidward says. “We’re hoping to make good time to Bass Vegas.”

“It’s better to party there,” DJ Dolph Dolphin supplies. “We could drive out there ourselves, if we wanted. Slots, you guys.”

Please don’t.

“Yeah, that’d be fun,” SpongeBob says. He sounds like you told him he’s been fired from the Krusty Krab and can now be _funemployed_ forever!

Stephanie hugs SpongeBob, who accepts it but does not reciprocate. “Sleep on the road, Bobby.” She must assume he’s tired. ‘Tired’ has always, _always_ been Squidward’s go-to when someone asks him how he is and he doesn’t want to be honest and say ‘shitty.’

“Will do. Thanks, Stephanie.”

“Text me.”

“Okay.”

Is she still flirting with SpongeBob? Well, SpongeBob has feelings for someone else, so there, bitch. Wait, no. He doesn’t mean that. He feels disgusting thinking like that. Why does he have such a traitor for a brain?

They gotta get out now.

-

Mermaid Brigade is on the road for an hour before SpongeBob speaks. “Is it . . . does it have to do with my, you know, being a . . . ?”

“You being a what? A sponge?”

“No, I mean being a boy. Man. Male.”

“Oh . . . well, no. SpongeBob, I’m bi.”

“You are?”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No? I don’t know. I guess I never thought much about it.”

“You know when I said some of our tour takes us to places that make me uncomfortable? Well, it’s because of exes. Some of them are male.”

“Oh.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Bi?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so? You know, I like who I like, when I like them, and everything else is irrelevant. You can label that if you want, but I never liked doing that. Some people like labels, though, like Sandy. She’s scientific and smart and probably likes to quantify things, so it doesn’t bother me when she calls me demi or pan or queer. I don’t call myself those things, though.”

Squidward is one of those people who likes labels, so he’s gonna think on this. Like who you like. Isn’t there a label for people attracted to intelligence? Considering SpongeBob has liked Sandy, and is now on Squidward, he very clearly is just that.

“But . . . you like me.”

“I do.”

“You being a guy has nothing to do with anything, for me.”

“So . . . it’s just me.”

“Why do you want to be with me, anyway? I’m a lot older than you.” Squidward asks, to deflect. Yes, it’s true that the reason Squidward doesn’t want to be with SpongeBob is because SpongeBob is who he is. There are no other factors. On his list of requirements for a partner, ‘not being SpongeBob,’ is number one.

“I like that about you. You know so much, and have been through so much.” SpongeBob pauses. “Does my age bother you?”

“How old are you again?”

SpongeBob frowns. “I’m twenty-eight. Almost twenty-nine.”

“Eh, not the worst. Still not that good, though. I was a teenager when you were born.”

“So what? Neither of us are teenagers now.”

“Yep, that sure is a true statement.”

“So my age and gender don’t matter?”

“Guess not. There’s other things, SpongeBob.”

“I’m highly dateable!” SpongeBob argues. “I’m an adult, I’m employed, I own my own home.”

Squidward rolls his eyes. “You work at the Krusty Krab—”

“—same place as you—”

“—yes, yes, same place as me, so I know it’s not a good job—”

“—it’s the best—”

“—shush! I’m talking, SpongeBob. See, you’re eager—too eager! You’re interrupting me with all your SpongeBobness. Anyway!” Squidward affects his best hoity-toity asshole voice. How else is he supposed to get through to the little menace? Being nice hasn’t worked. “You have a lame job and a lame house that’s _right next to my house_ and therefore has no appeal to me.”

“Okay, but I’m creative—like you!—and I’m talented and kind and I care about you. I’ll treat you well.”

“You’ll treat me well? Haha, oh Neptune, that’s precious.”

“Why are you knocking that?”

“It’s very cute.”

“Well, you shouldn’t patronize me. Yes, I’ll treat you well. I’d support you, in every way I could. I want you to be happy.”

“If you really wanted me to be happy, you would have listened to me a long time ago. You know, when I asked you to quiet down, or not stomp all over my garden, or not yell right in my ear at the restaurant, or not bother me on my days off, or not come into my house uninvited, or not sabotage so much for me by just being you and I swear, sometimes I think you do it all on purpose! You fuck with me on purpose and now you’re telling me you’d love me for me and support my hopes and dreams and that we’d be good together because you’re also creative—a trait, by the way, I think you absolutely hold over me because you can do everything so easily!

“Do you think it’s fun for me to be the way I am? Fed up with everyone and everything? Do you think I get off on being miserable? Of course I was like you once! I believed everything was possible and things would work out for me, but look, they never did. Why would I like having you around when you remind me of all my failures?”

SpongeBob looks shocked.

“Hit a nerve?”

“I . . . I never saw it that way.”

“I gotta ask: do you mean it? All the _odious_ things that you do?”

“I . . . I might. I mean everything I do at the exact moment that I’m doing it, but I . . . sometimes regret it the second after. I can’t explain it. I don’t want to hurt you, ever. I want your attention, and I, um. I thought about it differently than you.”

“I’m sure. I’m sure you rationalized all your behavior to yourself and in your mind you’re a nice guy trying to get his crochety old neighbor to lighten up and enjoy things.” Squidward does his impression of SpongeBob. “Oh, if only Squidward would stop being so negative all the time, he’d see the world is such a great place! Bahahaha. Bubbles, sunshine, love!”

SpongeBob stares over the dash. He bites his lip.

“Do you have anything to say to that?” Squidward smirks.

“Squidward, I,” SpongeBob digs the heel of his hands into his eyes and grasps at his hair with his fingers. “I’m so sorry.”

“ _Thank you_.”

“In my mind, I never . . . you’re right. You’re right—everything made sense to me, but. I don’t think there’s really anything I can say besides I’m sorry and,” tears slide down SpongeBob’s face. “Ignore me, I’m crying because I’m dumb and cry at everything, but you’re right about me. I’ve been so selfish.”

“Glad you see it my way, for once.”

SpongeBob chokes on a breath, pulls his hands lower so he can better cover his face with them. “Haha, I’m not sure what to do now.”

“I was thinking we could do the time-honored tradition of pretending nothing happened.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

“Good,” Squidward flips up the center console and procures some wadded up tissues. “Come on, wipe up your face and stop crying. We got a long night ahead of us. Don’t want you to get a headache.”

“Thanks. You’re being too nice.”

“Oh, don’t give me that, SpongeBob. I don’t want you to have an epiphany that you’ve done some things and now you’re not good enough and I’m too nice to you blah blah blah. We’re Mermaid Brigade and we’re on tour and we promised each other that we would make it fantastic so I need you to be SpongeBob about this and make this the Best Tour Ever.”

“It’s gonna be the Best Tour Ever,” SpongeBob sings, voice wobbly from crying.

“Best Tour Ever,” Squidward comes in, backup singer.

Good.

-

**Sunday, June 28, 2015**

They stop at a gas station. It’s past four in the morning. When he comes out of the bathroom, Squidward sees SpongeBob checking out the aisles. SpongeBob looks anemic in this lighting—highlighter yellow, hair and skin, both. He honestly looks fucking terrible.

“Hey,” Squidward says, going up to him. “You almost ready to go?”

“Yeah, whenever you are.”

They don’t buy anything except gas. They don’t stay long. They’re making great time. Soon, Squidward can sleep and hopefully have dreams about missing Squilvia and not about SpongeBob kissing him.

-

Squidward pushes a buzzer and an attendant does business with him from behind bulletproof glass, complete with a metal vent so they can hear each other. The attendant slips him two keys—metal keys, not keycards, through the small hole in the glass and counter. Squidward takes back his license with the keys and gives one key to SpongeBob.

The rooms at the Kolor Inn all face the street. Squidward and SpongeBob’s room is on the ground level. Parking block and small walkway aside, Squidward parks right up to their door.

The sun is rising, a pink softness in the dark. It’s morning, but it’s finally Squidward’s night.

-

The curtains are still shut, so the room is dark. Squidward messes with the aircon unit underneath the window, and sets it so the room will freeze. He flops on the bed closest, bends his legs over the side. SpongeBob quietly sets his own stuff on the other bed, the one by the door.

“I feel like I’m dying.”

“It's mutual,” SpongeBob says, solemn.

They don’t have another show until Tuesday. Squidward feels like he can waste some time. Maybe crash. Maybe take an allergy pill and try to sleep away the rest of the weekend.

“Let’s leave the music gear and get it later. I want to go to bed.”

“All right, me too. I want this day to . . .”

-

Squidward wakes up from the pain of a headache pooling in his eye sockets. The sunlight, only in shards split by the curtains, is agonizing. Squidward shields his face.

Migraine.

Oh yeah, he is going to be nauseated all day. His eyes want to explode. He feels sour inside his skull.

SpongeBob is fully dressed, lying on his back on his own bed, texting. Squidward grunts to get his attention. “Oh, good morning, Squidward!”

“. . . too . . . loud.” Has he become the man from the retirement home? His transformation into the worst type of person is almost complete.

“Good morning, Squidward,” SpongeBob whispers.

Squidward lifts a hand into the air and motions out a _take it down a little_. “Indoor voice. No, no, more than that: internal monologue voice.”

“But that’s silent.”

“Exactly.”

“. . . is something wrong?”

“I have a migraine.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I’m sorta . . . outta commission today.”

“What should I do?”

“I have medicine in my stuff.”

“Okay, I’ll get it.”

SpongeBob slips off his bed, so he can get into Squidward’s suitcase on the floor. He rummages around for a second. Squidward hopes SpongeBob is looking in the right spot, not just going through his undergarments. Squidward is too keyed up with pain that he isn’t remotely self-conscious about SpongeBob seeing all his toiletries, however, even embarrassing ones. Well, it’s not like SpongeBob hasn’t rifled through his medicine cabinet before. It’s been a while, since that stopped when Squilvia was living with Squidward, but SpongeBob’s seen the rash creams of the past. There really is no reason to have any shame. Just, hopefully SpongeBob is refraining from unearthing things Squidward likes to wear on stage to keep his figure looking svelte. Those kinda things are his little secret.

SpongeBob shuffles over on his knees and hands over an orange medication bottle. “Do you have something to take it with?”

Squidward says no. “I need water . . .”

“Um,” SpongeBob looks around for something to use as a cup. There really isn’t anything. Their room does not have a mini fridge, nor does it have an ice bucket with shitty, flimsy plastic cups to go along. “Want me to fill the cap up?”

This migraine worsens with specific twists of the neck, with fast movement, something he figures out by trying to move proactively, so Squidward doesn’t rise. He wouldn’t normally, but Squidward dumps out all the pills on his bed, instead. They roll into the dip of blanket between his legs. He plucks one pill up out of the group, then hands over the empty medication bottle to SpongeBob, who takes it into the bathroom and fills it up with tap water.

He swallows the pill, and it hurts on the way down, without enough liquid to cushion it. He feels like throwing up.

“I’m going to spend the day out,” SpongeBob announces.

“Alone?”

“Well, yeah. I’m not afraid or anything like that.”

“I mean, okay, but why?”

“You seem like you need time alone.”

Squidward would laugh out loud if it wouldn’t split his head open. “Really, SpongeBob, you’re gonna give me space?”

“Yes.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m thinking I’ll play my ukulele in the park or something. Try to get some extra money.”

“I’m not used to you being so . . . understanding.”

“I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

“Yeah, uh, thanks. Good luck, then.”

And SpongeBob leaves.

He’s gone.

He doesn’t come right back. He doesn’t throw open the door or screech or jump Squidward.

Shivering, Squidward rolls in blankets. He feels his spilled pills on his ankles, and makes a lazy effort to keep them from dropping to the floor by tugging the blanket up.

Squidward sleeps. He wakes up. He scrolls on his phone (he has no messages). He sleeps more.

-

Squidward wakes up again with a disgusting screw of energy in his belly that makes him, despite his headache, want to talk to someone. He’s lonely and wants advice, but he doesn’t have a best friend or anything like that, so he doesn’t know who to contact. He scrolls through his contact list.

The S division is the worst: Sandy, SpongeBob, Squilliam, Squilvia, Squilzabeth. He can’t talk to any of them. He scrolls up a little higher, gets Mama, and that’s a _fuck no_ if ever there was one. However, right above Eugene is Dolph—DJ Dolph Dolphin. They’re not even friends . . .

_Hey, it’s Squidward. Thank you for letting SpongeBob and I stay at your apartment for Saturday’s show. We have arrived safely in Bass Vegas and will perform again on Tuesday. I hope you don’t mind my contacting you. Truth is, I wanted to ask for your—_

Nope. Nope, he can’t do this. What the fuck is he going to say, _hey, so SpongeBob has a crush on me and idk how to handle it lol?_ This is what he gets for not being able to make friends. He doesn’t have anyone to ask for advice, or anyone whose opinion matters, no one who knows him well and can assess his situation with care. When he was with Squilvia, he loved blindly, for the most part, but he remembers that courting her was something SpongeBob assisted him with. He’s loath to call SpongeBob a friend, and SpongeBob very obviously cannot be consulted on a situation with which he is involved.

The brightness of his shell phone screen, even with the backlight dimmed, makes Squidward cringe. He drops his hand so he doesn’t have to look at it. It’s useless right now.

Living in Bikini Bottom, with SpongeBob as his coworker and neighbor, is like living in some liminal place, someplace outside of the regular rules of the world. Squidward can hop in his vehicle and drive far, far away, but if he’s got SpongeBob in tow, he’s always carrying around a piece of something cursed. SpongeBob isn’t in this motel room now, but Squidward feels trapped.

 _That has nothing to do with SpongeBob_ , Squilvia says in Squidward’s head. _I told you, your troubles follow you everywhere. It’s you._

_It’s me._

A stupid part of him wants suddenly to ask Squilvia for advice.

_Hey, I know we’re not together anymore and you gave me back the ring, and we haven’t talked since my terse, awkward happy birthday message half a year ago, a message to which you replied via text with distant, detached emoticon faces (the dreaded :), for example), but I wanted to let you know that you were absolutely right about my neighbor: he’s got the hots for me! So, although I’m the last person you want to hear from, I was wondering if I could nab one more dose of your insight and . . ._

Okay, seriously, why the fuck is he planning out exactly what to say, passive-aggressive attitude included, even though he’s not going to write to her?! He’s so lame, holy shit.

 _Squidward,_ he knows she’d say in the alternate timeline where they’re still together, _why did you ever leave Tentacle Acres? We could be living there instead, mingling with our own ilk. You don’t need to keep suffering that moron._

She’s not fucking real, but she can still hear the thought he’s trying to hide: _oh, well, because I miss SpongeBob when I spend too much time away from him._

_Why? Also, what’s with Mermaid Brigade? You do know that you don’t have to humor him, right? If you didn’t have him over to make songs, he’d never be here ever!_

_I don’t know. It’s boring without him._

_But I’m here now._

Maybe that could have been enough. Squidward is so tired of this. “Isn’t it exhausting to always be fighting a battle in your head?” He asks himself out loud, since no one can hear it.

He knows logically that this sort of self-flagellation is useless, but knowing something logically doesn’t stop him. “Do you like it?” He asks himself. “Do you think there’s some cosmic entity listening? Will you get another chance with her if you dream up a fix?”

“I do think that . . . some components of our relationship need to end,” this is something Squilvia really did say. “But . . . maybe we can be friends still.” If they really had ended up as friends, he might go ahead and message her. It was only lip service.

 _Will you be mine for the summer?_ It’s a proposition with an inherent expiration date. Even SpongeBob wants something fun and ephemeral, will probably get fucking bored of Squidward after these eight weeks go by.

 _Are you seriously considering it, old bean?_ Squilliam asks with a sneer. Squidward’s got to stop this Theatre of Exes drivel. _Wait, isn’t that the kid who got the entire town to come through for you at the Bubble Bowl? The singer? Would that be the same little sponge who perpetuated the ruse that you were successful enough to own a restaurant? The fine-dining waiter?_

Okay, okay, try to think of something else . . .

_Ah, the starving artist . . ._

_Okay. Squidward Tentacles, unrecognized savant, decided, after a failed love affair, to take his indie band on tour. By the time this is published, you have surely heard Mermaid Brigade’s numerous, chart-topping songs. Perhaps you have a CD to play in your boat, or a customized ringtone. You’ve seen the resurgence of jazz in pop culture. Did you know that Squidward designed all of Mermaid Brigade’s album covers? Before finding success in his band, however, Squidward was underappreciated, and paintings were food before they were a source of money._

“Who is ‘you?’” Squidward grumbles. He hopes his migraine will render him unable to think.

 _Haha, you think you deserve someone like that, Squidward?_ Squilliam laughs. Squilliam’s laugh is remarkably like Squidward’s, but better. Squidward has always been the low budget version of Squilliam.

No.

“Don’t think things like that,” Squidward says. Affirmations, say your affirmations. “You are talented, Squidward. You are the only you, no one can do things like you . . .” You know who would unironically say that to him? “I know! SpongeBob would!”

_SpongeBob? Is that his name? The waiter?_

_Why do you want to know?_

_I’m rather fond of him._

Squidward’s garbage brain is making shit up! This is how it works; if it can make him crazy, it will.

Luckily, the pain gets worse.

_You’re the ugliest person in any given situation._

_Well, sometimes I catch my own reflection and am startled by how handsome I am._

_You’re not really that great of an artist. There’s a reason no one wants to give you money for your art._

_I’m a bad artist._

“You’re talented, so much so,” SpongeBob would say. Has said.

He’s ugly.

He hears shuffling around outside the room, a scrape of wheels and thump of linens that makes him sit up in bed. Housekeeping. SpongeBob must have put out the Do Not Disturb sign, because no one tries to come in. Miracles.

He lies back down. How much of his thoughts were actually some migraine-induced nightmare?

 _You’re not ugly. When you try, you’re very coordinated. You gotta good face shape_ , and that’s the voice of Bran Flakes, who really has no business in his head aside from him being yet another someone to abandon Squidward when things got heavy. Squidward is completely over him, only heartbroken because of Squilvia. Right? Not like it matters anymore. Squidward is being unfair, considering their situation.

Bran Flakes was someone so fucking awesome, it was weird that he had such low self-esteem. In retrospect, maybe that’s why he hung out with Squidward.

_Is that why you sleep with, like, everyone? And let everyone treat you like shit? Why you let everyone tell you how you should look?_

_I guess so._

_I wish you didn’t feel that way. I wish you could see yourself the way I see you._

Don’t think of him as you’re falling asleep! You’ll keep him in your dreams!

What does SpongeBob see when he looks at Squidward?

_Even on bad days, you’re the most handsome guy in the room._

It wouldn’t be so bad if SpongeBob came back . . . and maybe . . . He’s fucking greedy, huh? Just wants to use SpongeBob to feel better. Is that selfish, or like, part of the terrain?

Would he be so accommodating when it’s his turn? Ugh.

_"Me too. I want this day to . . ."_

It’s not wrong to want to be wanted, but can he really convince himself to kiss SpongeBob? Repeatedly? SpongeBob is the reason there’s an expression about faces only mothers could love. Only a family member could stomach putting their lips on that fool.

He’s starved for affection, and this is an easy option.

_You’re actually imagining it? Fancy that!_

And worse.

“It doesn’t surprise me,” Squilvia says, warming her hands around her mug. Squidward remembers the clatter of dishes, the fat, white mugs with embossed logos, the smell of coffee and breakfast. They’re at _their_ restaurant, a diner that has nothing to do with Krabby Patties. It’s not glamorous, but Squilvia ate here all the time in college, with her roommate, Squillison, the older sister of Squilzabeth.

She still loves it, years later. Now that they’re not together anymore, it’ll go back to just being hers. That’s what happens—places, jokes, references, they become painful and meaningless and revert back to their source.

“Are we really here, or am I dreaming?”

“I always thought you had a _thing_ for your neighbor,” she tells him.

“No, no, you got that the other way around.”

“Do I?”

He can’t see Squilvia’s face clearly. He knows the song playing in the background, until he tries to listen for specific lyrics, then he can’t hear it at all. “I’m dreaming.”

“I should call Squilliam, see what he’s up to.”

Squidward tries to remember if he saw something on social media that would make him think she was interested in Squilliam over him. “Yeah, you’d look good together,” he means, but doesn’t mean to say. “When did you notice? My, uh, _thing_ for my neighbor?”

“My funny valentine,” Squilvia sings.

“I love that song.”

“I started to notice it after you’d come back from the recording studio,” she says. “The way you’d talk about your songs.”

“That’s because I was excited to be recording songs, not because I was with SpongeBob.”

“SpongeBob . . . why didn’t you just . . . drop him when you had an out?”

“I don’t hate the kid.”

“Invite him to the wedding.”

_Squidward, do you need me to pick up anything?_

What?

Squidward blinks. Brings his phone up to his face. He has a text from SpongeBob.

He thinks he’s awake now, can respond. Texts.

He closes his eyes and waits for SpongeBob to get back.

_". . . end."_

-

“That was . . . uncharacteristically kind of you.” Squidward tells SpongeBob when he comes back to the room. Squidward’s up for real now; doesn’t want to lie down ever again, fuck.

“Heh.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re, you’re welcome.” SpongeBob laughs, flustered. SpongeBob puts down his ukulele case and there’s a rustle of plastic—he’s got takeout bags with him, holy shit.

“Did you bring food?”

“Yeah. I didn’t think you’d be up for getting any yourself, so.”

When was the last time they ate? At that café? Oh shit, that was like eight years ago.

They have a _déclassé_ setup. It goes like this: there’s two beds up against one wall, separated by a nightstand that has a lamp, an alarm clock radio with the time stuck at a flashing 12:00, a pad of shitty motel stationery with matching pen, and a phone with a curly cord. Across from the beds is a TV in a cabinet, and beside that, a dresser with another lamp and a stack of flyers for local restaurants. There is nowhere to sit, other than the beds, or the floor. SpongeBob’s bed is closest to the bathroom, Squidward’s got the wall unit. Can’t beat the rate, so.

The two table lamps have different intensity bulbs in them, so the one in between the beds shines bright, but the one by the TV glows soft orange. The tacky fake gold headboards also have sconces built in, with bright white bulbs not unsuited for an impromptu shell phone movie. How many have been made in this very bed? That’s a thing Bran Flakes would have known more about. Maybe there’s a copy of their own shell phone movie somewhere, forever locked by Bran Flakes’ convoluted password. It could even be on the internet, buried under a myriad of amateurs. Or maybe all of Bran Flakes’ belongings got trashed. No way to know now.

SpongeBob sits on the floor by the foot of his bed, and arranges the boxes in such a way to encourage Squidward to take a seat on the ground opposite him, something Squidward does indeed do.

The magnitude of his hunger only registers once he smells the food. It so smells incredible, he wants to die.

SpongeBob waves his hand. “Have whatever you want. I got a whole buncha stuff you like, so. I even found a convenience store on the way back and snagged some Canned Bread!” Canned Bread. It’s like, of course there just so happened to be Canned Bread nearby, since Squidward had his Squilvia-extolling-the-virtues-of-Tentacle-Acres moment.

SpongeBob’s bruise is black in this light, like a smudge of charcoal. Squidward has sticks of charcoal at home, can perfectly envision rubbing his thumb against one until it was black, then swirling his thumb on SpongeBob’s knee to make that mark.

Fuck everyone in his head and in their shithole town, that’s the observation of an artist.

“We need drinks,” SpongeBob jumps up. “I’ll go find a vending machine. Be right back.”

He leaves the room, after jamming the bolt in a way to keep the door from shutting completely. With the door open, warmth fights against the aircon, giving Squidward an impression of how hot it is out in the real world, something he totally bypassed by staying inside. He can hear chatter and traffic, and they’re right on the side of a road, and there’s probably been murders at this motel, and he assumes they’re surrounded by riffraff.

He flicks open a Styrofoam box, and his fingers are caressed by steam and drops of hot condensation. He is too far gone to look for plastic cutlery in amongst these bags and boxes, so he uses his hands and doesn’t care that it burns.

SpongeBob comes back momentarily, soda cans in his arms, and he locks them back up in their room and Squidward can again pretend that he’s in a much better place than a shady motel in Bass Vegas. He’s somewhere private and cold, surrounded by comfort food and SpongeBob’s apologetic demeanor, which is malleable and soft.

SpongeBob gives Squidward a can. He helpfully retrieves the cutlery, too, since Squidward isn’t bothered to. Squidward has no energy. He’s so hungry that eating kinda hurts.

He watches SpongeBob rummage through his own stuff, almost pulling his duffel bag right off the bed. SpongeBob takes out his glasses, puts them on, then starts going through his phone. He must have messages; he bites his lip and texts, the old-fashioned lame way, finger hitting the 2 key until it’s the right letter, hitting the 4, so on. A useless skill. SpongeBob’s full of those, like someone who knows a lot of trivia—it’s cute at parties but ultimately a waste.

“Do you need your medicine?” SpongeBob asks, not looking up from his phone. “I can get it for you. Where did you put it?” He’s still on one knee, not settled.

Squidward waves him off. The pills are still on his bed. “I’m good. Sit and eat with me, SpongeBob.”

SpongeBob adjusts himself, then, excepting the one right in front of Squidward, opens each box carefully. He passes Squidward a napkin that can only be described as half-ply. Did SpongeBob go to multiple joints to get all this stuff? There’s noodles, and mini sandwiches, and if it’s from one spot, their selection is huge.

A little caffeine can sometimes help Squidward out when he has a migraine, so he’s glad to have more than the medication bottle-sized doses of tap water he’s been drinking all day. He’s not usually a big soda drinker, but presently, it is perfect, fizzy and almost electric in his mouth. It’s the best soda he’s ever had.

He takes things from every box, keeps his eyes on SpongeBob’s pointed attempt to seem interested in his shell phone, although he cannot possibly have messages long enough for such a fixation. He can’t be reading anything else—this phone doesn’t have access to anything else. He understands suddenly that SpongeBob is doing this for the same reasons that girls do on busses—he’s trying to look busy so no one, in this case, Squidward, will talk to him. It’s probably all for Squidward’s sake, to be nice.

He doesn’t know why, but Squidward wants to hear SpongeBob’s voice. He doesn’t want SpongeBob to be afraid of him.

SpongeBob looks so much like he did in the parking garage, illuminated, teeming, something volatile and alive. Whenever Squidward catches a glimpse of SpongeBob’s eyes, he’s jolted by their vibrancy, a strange blend of orange light and his natural blue, like the sunset sky.

“What did you do today?” Squidward asks.

“Played in the park, like I said I would. It was a lot of fun. I had a good spot in the shade.”

“Will you look at me when you’re talking to me?”

SpongeBob looks at Squidward. SpongeBob’s someone who telegraphs his emotions on his face, and all his unspoken heartbreak is in between his brows, in lines by his eyes, in his watery stare.

“Do you like the food?” SpongeBob asks.

“I do. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” SpongeBob says. He looks at his own fork, since he’s no longer talking and isn’t obligated to make eye contact.

What a fascinating creature he is. Squidward has never known SpongeBob to be graceful, to let rejection shape his behavior. Did Squidward let him down too hard? It was so easy to say no to SpongeBob, because SpongeBob is a loud little soul and does as he pleases, no matter what Squidward asks. Underneath the clean cut presentation, underneath the smiles and dumb laugh and easy confidence is something else. Squidward wants to know what.

Squidward’s an adult, but he’s someone who is constantly surprised that other adults can grow and change, have something inside of them beneath the veneer. SpongeBob is younger than Squidward, but . . . SpongeBob is an adult, after all.

What would it be like, to give SpongeBob a chance, to have him devoted? Devoted, a word so loaded with connotation, the idea of worship. SpongeBob kissed him like that, like there was so much worship and love in his body he could only translate into a gesture. SpongeBob kissed so much hunger into him.

“I think you’d like the park,” SpongeBob says. “Lots of artist-types, like you. I saw another octopus! He was doing portraits, right there on the spot! You’d probably be good at something like that.”

SpongeBob has always been like this, hasn’t he? Compliments Squidward casually, sincerely. He’s always been a fan of Squidward’s art. Maybe even Squidward’s, ugh, biggest fan.

Why isn’t this easy? Why can’t he stick to rejecting SpongeBob? It was _one_ kiss. It shouldn’t be stuck in Squidward’s head like a Mermaid Brigade song, looping until it doesn’t make sense.

“You know, I don’t really see many sponges when traveling.”

“We’re a rare breed,” SpongeBob laughs. “Lucky for you.” Self-deprecation is unpleasant coming from SpongeBob. He’s someone so genuine and that type of humor is more suited to a jaded motherfucker like Squidward.

Is this . . . guilt? Is Squidward guilty? Squidward doesn’t like it when SpongeBob is out of character.

Squilvia never liked SpongeBob. Can Squidward remember why, exactly? “He’s always coming into the place like he owns it,” she had said. Yes, that was true, SpongeBob was always in Squidward’s house without invitation, although, after Squilvia moved in, he only came over to do Mermaid Brigade things.

She was a good thing in Squidward’s life, making everything around him better. Living together meant that SpongeBob had to respect their privacy and knock on the door like a regular person. And Squidward remembered perfectly the way the yapping and chipper pestering multiplied at work, unless Squilvia came in, which made SpongeBob shut up. Squidward really should have noticed it then; he noticed it in a superficial way, but it didn’t process in his heart. Why would it? He liked being detached from SpongeBob.

While Squidward was in love, was SpongeBob accepting a reality where Squidward would never know about his feelings, not for real? Squidward had been in love before, with Squilvia, and with others before her. He was never in love with someone who was in love with someone else, though. What an exceptional kind of torture. _Invite him to the wedding_. Invite him, and what, know that the joy and gift and speech were all from the public persona façade SpongeBob puts on for customers and townspeople?

“You really put up with way too much from him,” Squilvia had told him, countless times.

“He’s my neighbor and coworker. I can’t ostracize him completely,” he told her. Which was true. He didn’t need SpongeBob to be in his life in any deeper way, however. It didn’t matter, the transition was going to be easy. Once Squidward and Squilvia got married, SpongeBob would become less and less prominent in Squidward’s life.

SpongeBob has the kind of blue eyes that remind Squidward of that fucking diamond, refracting, reflective, big and fucking horrible.

That fucking diamond. Squidward stashed it under his mattress, couldn’t sleep with it there, hid it in bottles in the bathroom, took it out and tried to find hiding places for it he would forget about, but he never could. That cursed piece of shit is in his freezer back home, suspended in ice, set in an ice tray, some symbolic shit, freeze his love for Squilvia. Put this love on ice, a fucking spell that didn’t work.

There isn’t a single moment he can blame for their break up. It goes on for years, the ugliness, something infected and festering. He wants to blame Squilvia, but he’s just as responsible.

SpongeBob asks Squidward’s least favorite question: “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to go to bed early? Don’t worry about this, I’ll clean up. We can turn off the lights.”

“SpongeBob . . . what do you mean by ‘the broken and brand new?’”

“Hm?”

“Your book. I saw a little back at DST’s apartment. ‘Who else could love . . . the broken and brand new?’”

“. . . you didn’t see the whole thing?”

“No.”

“Oh. It’s nothing, not really. I write whatever in that thing.”

“Can I see?”

“Um . . . it’s not really something . . . you’d want to see, you know?”

“How come?”

“It’s just my lame poems and things. None of it makes any sense.”

“. . . is it about me?”

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Not a hard question.”

“I mean, I don’t know what you want me to say to you. It’s nothing special. It’s like a journal, but with inventory and money notes, that kinda stuff.”

“I’ve read your diaries before.”

“I remember,” SpongeBob frowns. “I wasn’t happy about that.”

“Let me see it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because what if it is about you? Then what?”

“If it’s about me, then I want to know.”

“. . . I don’t want to show you.”

“But—”

“Squidward, please don’t,” SpongeBob says, voice small. “I’m so sorry, about all of this. I shouldn’t have kissed you and I wish I could take it back, but I can’t. I regret it, and I’m really glad that you still wanna tour with me. I do want to be a better friend to you, and I hope you can forgive me someday. I have . . . problems.”

“Problems?” Well, yeah. _Loads_ of them. “Everybody has problems. Take me: I get so caught up in my own head, remembering all the dumb things that hurt me, imagining more, making up reasons to feel worse. That was my day.”

“I hate that you feel that way, but I get it. It’s really easy to dwell on negative things when you’re mad or sad. You . . . gotta make sure you don’t fixate on every single bad thing that’s happened in your life and keep yourself sick.”

“Sick?”

“Yeah, don’t make yourself sick by remembering things or making up things. Um, cognitive distortions only make things worse . . .”

“ _Cognitive distortions?_ There’s no way you’d know a term like that, unless, what, you’re seeing a therapist?”

SpongeBob pulls at his fringe. “I mean . . . yeah? I’m trying out some new medication, too, so . . . You’re never too old to try to improve yourself.”

“Wait, what? You what?!”

“So, please, don’t try to look in my book when I’m not in the room, or whatever. It’s personal.”

Squidward has his mouth wide open in shock. SpongeBob tells him he looks like an anchovy _meeping_. Or a very specific Surprised Patrick face.

“What do you have?!”

SpongeBob recoils, visibly offended. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m sad to hear you’ve been dealing with both a migraine and also all this other stuff, but I’m not up for sharing.”

Squidward hasn’t ever heard SpongeBob sound so authoritative. “. . . You’re right. I’m being insensitive. And I won’t touch your book.”

 _I knew you had something wrong with you!_ No, don’t think shit like that. That’s vile.

“Thank you.”

“I’m . . . a terrible person, SpongeBob.”

“You’re not a terrible person. You want to be happy and appreciated, and that’s not so bad.”

“I don’t think I think the right way. I find something to hate in everyone.”

“You can change things about yourself you don’t like.”

“Easier said.” He’ll have to unlearn everything and reprogram his head at this point.

“You have to try.”

“I’m tired all the time.” He waits for SpongeBob’s diagnosis (he gets one from everyone else), but none comes.

“I know. You’re right, it’s not easy. You do have to try, though. You’ll have to find out what works for you, be it more rest or, like, therapy or medication, like me. Journaling, exercise, whatever.”

Squidward knows that SpongeBob, and Patrick and Sandy, by association, do have a part to play in his depression, but they’re not all of it. He could sit home all day and have zero distractions and eat toast points and paint, and be happy for a little bit, but then be sad when he stops moving around and has nothing but his thoughts. Squidward nods. “I’ll tell you a secret. I want to tell you,” Squidward clarifies. “Not so you’ll show me the book, I mean. I want to tell you.”

“Okay?”

“I keep Squilvia’s engagement ring in my freezer.”

“You, you do?”

“I can’t do anything else with it. I can’t take it back. Can’t throw it away. I don’t know what to do with it. I just.”

SpongeBob starts crying.

He’s sad for Squidward. He’s crying because he feels sad for Squidward. That’s just how SpongeBob is: a weirdo who wants the best for him—doesn’t necessarily know how to show it, but yeah, would bring the biggest gift to the wedding—if he wasn’t trying to ruin it somehow, right? SpongeBob would . . .

“I’m sorry, Squidward.”

“Yeah, well. Thanks for not saying something like, ‘you should just pawn it or something.’” When Squidward had told his mother that the engagement was off, that was the first thing she said. None of that sympathy rubbish—don’t get it wrong, she’s not mean to her only son (Patrick and SpongeBob are not her sons, no matter what), it’s just that she had repeatedly told Squidward she didn’t like who he was when he was with Squilvia, which is fucking bizarre because he was _happy_ when he was with Squilvia.

“Why would I say something like that? I’ve never been engaged, obviously, but I wouldn’t think it’s as easy as getting back some money and ‘cutting your losses,’ or whatever pawning it is supposed to mean. I’m sorry,” SpongeBob apologizes again. “I really don’t know what to say about this whole thing. If you know what you need to hear, I’ll do my best.”

It’s not that Squidward wants to hear something specific, in fact, there’s probably nothing anyone can say that will help besides Squilvia calling him up to tell him she’s ready to get back together, and although he doesn’t put a lot of stock in predicting the future, he does know, without a doubt, that they will never be together again. He knows. He hates that he knows, but, deep down, he can’t pretend or wish or pray for reconciliation because he will never have it. It’s an extreme hurt, but he knows she’ll never call him again—

He does have those thoughts like, okay, maybe once I’ve accepted that I’ll never see her again, years after that, I will indeed see her again and we can start afresh, which is the worst possible thought because it undermines what he already knows to be true and keeps hope alive when it should die.

He knows, but he hopes he’s wrong.

“No, you’re . . . actually very good about all of this, SpongeBob,” Squidward admits. “I appreciate that. I know things between us are . . . uh, well, but I do want you to know that, so. Thank you. Maybe. No, I mean, yeah, thank you, for real. This can’t be easy for you.” Squidward’s said ‘thank you’ more times these last two days than the last two years. It’s that guilt.

“I mean, I knew you’d say no to me,” SpongeBob chuckles nervously. “I knew, I knew and I still asked anyways. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought it would . . . Anyways! Never mind about that.”

Fuck, that was exactly what Squidward was just thinking, re: Squilvia. How he knew, well, how he knows, but he still hopes anyway. “You knew, but you still asked anyway, because . . .”

“Yeah, sorry.”

Squidward waves him off. “Don’t worry about it.” SpongeBob being ‘creative,’ aside, they’re . . . a lot like each other in ways. Some are kinda bad. “By the way,” Squidward says. “Stop apologizing for the kiss. It’s getting annoying.” He mutters the next part: “It wasn’t even that bad, or whatever. I’ve had worse.” He coughs. “Besides, you’re bumming me out. Just stop apologizing for every single thing. Don’t be such a killjoy. It’s not like you. Don’t you have the decency to annoy me on purpose?”

SpongeBob laughs.

“Oh, and SpongeBob?”

“Yeah?”

“Please tell me your therapist isn’t Plankton in disguise.”

-

**Monday, June 29, 2015**

Before he’s again ready to sleep, hours after SpongeBob, Squidward looks at his phone to see if he really did get a text from SpongeBob while tripping on pain, and if he replied.

_Squidward, do you need me to pick up anything?_

_I don’t hate you._

-

“I’m checking out other places to play,” SpongeBob says, tying his shoes. “Parks, café fronts, et cetera. See if I can’t nab some extra money and practice before tomorrow.”

Squidward feels way better than he did yesterday, but he’s not inclined to leave the room. He’s got that Canned Bread to eat for breakfast; he’s good. “Good luck. Come back earlier. We should practice with each other.”

“You got it.”

-

SpongeBob comes back in the afternoon. He’s all smiles. “Hi!”

“Hey, SpongeBob. Good time, then?”

“Yeah! I made some new friends!”  
  
“Of course you did.”

“I got so many people to add to my contacts now,” SpongeBob grins. “Who knew there’d be so many cool people out there to meet?”

-

“Okay,” SpongeBob says, sitting on the edge of his bed, knees almost touching Squidward’s. Squidward’s on his own bed across from SpongeBob, but he’s a great deal taller and needs more legroom. SpongeBob opens his black book to a blank page. “Let’s do the books . . . We got $1,400 from our performance and the other bands. Fourteen hundred . . .” he writes the figure out.

“Change that to $1,300,” Squidward says, pulling his suitcase up onto his bed and taking out the wad of cash he stowed in the lining. “This is for you.” He hands $100 to SpongeBob.

“What for?”

“The Krabby Patties. Don’t pay for them yourself—they’re a band expense.”

“Right, okay. Thanks,” SpongeBob fishes his wallet out of his back pocket. He puts the bill with others. “. . . I made around $60 when I played in the park yesterday, but I spent all of it on food . . . sixty minus sixty, haha . . . Today I made $40 . . . $1,340 . . .”

Mother of pearl, that’s not a bad day busking. Squidward’s gotta get in on the fun when he feels better.

“We sold twelve CDs . . .”

 _Mother of pearl_.

“And we sold nine T-shirts, so $120 and $135 are $255, added to the rest is $1,595.”

“Take out the $150 for this motel—”

“Right, right, and gasoline.”

“Yeah. Okay . . . looks like we’re at around $1,385.” SpongeBob underlines this total. Squidward has the register job, but he remembers when he left SpongeBob in charge that one time—SpongeBob is really good at math and can break down numbers without a second thought. He doesn’t need a calculator for any of this, and although it’s simple addition and subtraction, Squidward would still write all these numbers down to do the math. Despite their appearances, Squidward’s got an artist’s brain and he works things out creatively. SpongeBob is more tactical and analytical than anyone could guess, even in the way he makes his own art.

“I can’t believe I’m asking this, but do you think we’ll have enough merch?” They brought fifty of each item. It seemed such a large number at the outset.

“Haha, I hope so. You think this is enough money for the rest of the tour?”

“Well, we’re going to keep earning, right? Should be fine.”

-

SpongeBob puts the book down on the bedside table.

It’s good to see him smiling . . .

Squidward clears his throat. “So, speaking hypothetically here, if I decided, okay, what the hell, this is our summer, I’ll be yours, well, then, what would you do?”

“Huh? Wait—”

“Just answer.”

“I’d move closer.”

“Okay, uh, closer. Yeah, all right. I could do whatever I wanted in this situation, too? Hypothetical situation.”

“Yes.”

“Like, uh, this?” Squidward pushes his thumb into SpongeBob’s bruise. “Where did you pick this up?”

“Jellyfishing.”

“Of course. You would.”

“You wanted to touch my bruise?”

“I don’t know. Guess so. Sorry, does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Do you have more?”

“I have a few. That I can see, at least.”

“Show them to me.”

SpongeBob rubs his eyes under his glasses, then goes the distance and shoves his glasses up into his yellow hair.

Squidward moves from his bed to SpongeBob’s. Sits right next to him. “I moved closer, so.”

“Isn’t this a hypothetical situation?”

“Show me.”

SpongeBob untucks his shirt and pops his bottommost shirt button.

Squidward holds his breath.

From the sliver of light, SpongeBob’s skin is golden, lips nude, eyelashes dark. Did he always look like this? It feels like the first time Squidward has seen him. Maybe it is. Maybe he’s never really seen SpongeBob before. He looks somehow older and younger at the same time.

There’s a faded brown bruise on SpongeBob’s hip bone. SpongeBob is pushing his shorts down, a bit . . . holy shit.

“Do you just . . . not know how to walk?”

“I’m reckless.”

“Yeah. Got more?”

SpongeBob pulls a leg up and pushes down his sock; there’s a bruise on his shin. “Last one.”

Squidward reaches for it.

“. . . what are you doing?”

“I’m not sure. I want to touch you.” All of the bruises are on SpongeBob’s left side. He must have eaten dirt. What a curious feeling that knowledge evokes from Squidward.

SpongeBob covers his mouth. Tears spill over his hands.

Squidward takes SpongeBob’s hands in his own. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No. Maybe. Why are you doing this?”

“I want to try . . .”

“ . . . try . . . ?”

Squidward stares at SpongeBob’s mouth. “I’m going to kiss you.”

SpongeBob gulps when Squidward moves, licks SpongeBob’s bottom lip. “Please, please, please, please . . .” Squidward presses his mouth to SpongeBob’s, kisses him fully. Bites a little.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Kiss me, kiss me—”

“Yes, yes,” Squidward kisses him.

“—more, more,” SpongeBob pants.

SpongeBob tastes salty.

“Happy tears?” For fuck’s sake, please be happy tears. This is fucking dreadful.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to kiss?”

“Ye-e-ee-e-e-s.”

“Will you kiss me? Like you did at the club?” With all that intensity; with all that adrenaline.

SpongeBob nods. He takes back one of his hands so he can touch Squidward’s jaw. “You have stubble,” he says with a sniffle.

Stop crying, stop crying.

It’s insane, the way his touch tingles, almost makes Squidward shudder. And those fucking eyes, dilated and almost black, and his swollen lips. _I did that to him_ , Squidward thinks. _I’m the one who made him look like that_. It’s mesmerizing.

When SpongeBob smooths this finger over Squidward’s mouth, Squidward opens up for him. SpongeBob doesn’t have technique, but he’s so, so enthusiastic and Squidward feels SpongeBob’s affection for him in his kisses. It’s different . . . Squidward kisses him deeply.

This is the worst idea to ever idea. To ever _anything_. But SpongeBob can make you feel good about yourself . . . it might be addictive.

“I can’t promise this isn’t guilt. Or loneliness. And it’s predicated on my being able to do this . . . at my own pace. And there’s some conditions. But, okay, what the heck. I’m changing my answer.”

“Your answer?” SpongeBob is shaking. Squidward kisses him again, quickly. Did he even give his answer at all?

“I’ll be yours—for the summer, or as long as I can deal. I reserve the right to cancel at any time! Don’t get too comfortable, okay? Trial run, this is a trial run.”

SpongeBob closes his eyes and wipes his face with his free hand. When he opens his eyes, he looks . . . frenetic, all wild and starving.

Squidward takes SpongeBob’s glasses and puts them over on the nightstand, atop the book. “Lie back,” he orders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WAIT WHAT BITCH DID YOU JUST END THE CHAPTER THERE?!
> 
> Hey, so the rating's gonna kick in starting next chapter. So you know in advance, not only will this story be sexually explicit, there'll be switching, experimenting, uh, all the stuff you could want. Cheers!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> YES
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> LMAO WE'LL SEE


	3. The Broken and Brand New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HAHA WAIT WHAT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter dedication to [SeashellWriter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SeashellWriter/pseuds/SeashellWriter) ([@seashellwriter](https://seashellwriter.tumblr.com/)), [Anniette](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/135613203), [zestynoodle](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/139091967), [Bean,](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/138459129) [lizardfish](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/147821709), and [@fliegend-nilpferd](https://fliegend-nilpferd.tumblr.com/)!!
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day! I love you!!
> 
>  **Chapter warnings:** adult language, adult concepts, alcohol references, sexual situations, sexual content, casual suicide ideation
> 
>  
> 
> [AU Information](http://spngbb.tumblr.com/ALWayS)  
> [Chapter Three Notes](http://spngbb.tumblr.com/ALWayS/Ch3)

“You can’t love someone unless you love yourself first”  
Bullshit.  
I have never loved myself.  
But you  
Oh god, I loved you so much I forgot what hating myself felt like  
-[@constant-nxthing](http://constant-nxthing.tumblr.com/)

**_ALWayS_ **

**Chapter Three:** The Broken and Brand New

**Wednesday, May 8, 1996**

Hey, you.

A fever in summer; your head is all wrong. You sleep so you can eat less, sleep right through the twists of your stomach. When you’re awake, you think, okay, you’ll clean the place, and you pick up tissues and wrappers, shopping bags with holes in them, shove them into a garbage can. Then you set that down, and that’s it. You never have the energy to clean more than one area, and you get so hungry, it hurts to move. You never want anything other than Sea-Nut Butter straight from the jar, the easiest. You’re addicted to frozen berries, but the smallest bag costs way too much. Plus, you’ve been noticing that when you eat seaberries, your throat goes tight and your arms itch. Are you really developing an allergy in your twenties? You love something, so your body decided you can’t have it? Sounds about right.

What do you even do all day, after waking as the sun is setting?

You light all the shit candles you have lying around and sit in the dark spot of the room, watching the flames flicker. You need less stuff. Why throw candles out, when you can burn them to death?

You keep the air conditioner and the heater on at the same time. You’ve got this ceiling fan heater, and it only keeps the bed warm. You freeze inside, sweat and rot outside. It’s still summer, no matter what. In your bedroom, you can play pretend it’s cold and your bed is so, so comfortable.

You live two streets away from the grocery store, but you fucking hate going to it. An entire trip takes twenty minutes, and by the time you’re done, you’re disgusting and wet. Every person outside of your fucking apartment is such a piece of shit, for real. You can’t even leave your place without something shitty happening: asshole drivers cutting you off, even though you’re a responsible pedestrian, cashiers swiping the basket away from you in the express lane like you’ve never gone shopping before and wow, they’re surprised you’re even in public, dumb as you are. Why does this always happen to you?

You read.

It’s the only thing that helps. You read books and manuals, articles, magazines. You read the words at the seams. You know parent companies, the smell of perfume samples (they all smell the same). Isn’t writing supposed to help, too? Isn’t that why you’re writing this? Is it working?

Fuck no. You feel exactly the same. Do you remember that anger management shit from school? Write your problems out on strips of paper, blow them away with bubbles. Even thinking back to it, you’re laughing. Come on, you won’t be able to read your handwriting like this . . . People are so fucking stupid, especially school counselors who specialize in helping loser kids like you. It’s all about visualizing your troubles away, shaking hands with your bullies, meeting them afresh. _Hello, I’m Squidward. No, it’s okay, I forgive you. I know your mama can’t make ends meet after she’s been paid her entire four dollars’ worth_. _You have a hard life, truly._ They should’ve known not to put you in that group. You could’ve been in study hall instead of giving the worst people _ammunition_.

Well, there goes your diary being a classy, epistolary novel in the making. The point is that people are never going to read this. You can be yourself in this book. What if you don’t want to look back and remember who you were? You hate who you were when you were eighteen, six years ago. If you read this six years from now, will you hate this you?

“You can be yourself in this book.”

Sure.

If no one’s going to read this, then you can tell the truth: you don’t want to be yourself. You’re supposed to try to get better and be your best self ever. Love yourself, find religion, get a nine-to-five, teach your children how to share. No. You just want to have a sunny studio so you can draw Seashell Writer covers and play your clarinet, like . . . like . . . you don’t want to have the life you’re supposed to have.

You still want to be Squilliam. That hasn’t changed since high school. How long did you confuse wanting to be the guy with loving the guy?

At least you don’t want to be Bran Flakes. There’s no confusion there.

You don’t want to write about him. Will it help? Is it fucking working?

Try not to miss him.

You will always miss him. You don’t want to move on; you want what you had, exactly the way it was. You want to go back to the moment where you fucked it all up, stop yourself, bite your tongue. You could still be happy, then. You should’ve kept lying, never revealed how shitty you actually were. You’ve showed your bad side, and nobody’s ever thought it was worth staying for. You don’t want to move on. He can’t forgive you ever again.

Leave.

Mama can’t keep paying your bills. Go return your library books, quit pretending you’re going to learn Salmonese. Call up that shop and donate your furniture. You still got to pack up all your stuff, you unmotivated, unemployed failure. Get that bus ticket back to Bikini Bottom. You don’t want to be one of those adults that has to move back in with their parents; you can’t live here, either. You’re pathetic.

So, hey, you. What are you going to do?

-

**Monday, June 29, 2015**

Squidward pulls back slowly, to see what SpongeBob’ll do—SpongeBob follows, leans up, shifts closer, closer, trying to kiss him. “Squidward—” SpongeBob whines.

“What is it?”

“ _Please_.”

SpongeBob pushes himself up onto his elbows, sucks on Squidward’s bottom lip, before drawing back. “Squidward, Squidward.”

Squidward kisses SpongeBob, and they lace their fingers together and when Squidward nervously presses his face into SpongeBob's shoulder, SpongeBob laughs. “You really want to do this?”

“Don't push it. I can't think about it too hard or I might change my mind.” He’s already overloaded.

“Ah, don't do that. I want to kiss you. Pretty you.” 

“Pretty?”

“Yes, so, so pretty.” SpongeBob's humming. Does he know he's doing that? Humming one of their songs. He's writhing, wiggling his hips, wants to grind, needs friction. 

Squidward sits up, runs his hands along SpongeBob's chest. He pinches a little through the fabric.

SpongeBob pleads for more. “Baby, please, please.”

“Baby?”

“Do you not like it? I don't have to.” 

“No. I like it. It's different. No one’s ever called me stuff like that. You know, cute stuff, like baby, or pretty. It was always other stuff, like Squiddy or whatever.” 

“I'll call you whatever you like. Whatever you want, I'll do it.”

“Don't be so irresponsible with your affection.”

“Don’t tell me what to do with my affection, Tentacles.”

“Shush you,” Squidward kisses him quiet.

Unreal.

“You look good like this,” Squidward mumbles.

“I look the same as always.”

“You don’t.”

SpongeBob arches under him, drops down to the bed with a distressed sigh. He puts his hands on Squidward, feels him up, squeezes Squidward’s upper arms. He makes a sweet sound that goes straight to Squidward’s dick.

“Make that sound again.”

“Do what you did again,” SpongeBob says.

Squidward rocks his hips. SpongeBob’s legs spread wider around him. This is . . . gonna ruin him.

SpongeBob looks the best like this, eyes blown, mouth wet, blond hair messy. He’s still loud, but begging for more, for kisses and touches, for affection.

But . . . this is really good. Squidward doesn’t need to do anything more than this right now, kiss and grind. It’s amazing, because this makes him feel like a teenager. He’s operating on lust and intuition, and everything is perfect this way, erotic and rushed.

“I want, I want—”

“What do you want?”

“I’m so . . .”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Do it, SpongeBob, come on.”

SpongeBob squeezes Squidward’s side with his thighs, drawing Squidward closer. Squidward braces his arms above SpongeBob’s head so he can bear down harder. This is a strange kind of power, wanting to make someone come.

SpongeBob moans and arches, slides his hands over Squidward’s back, kisses his cheeks. He can move so sensually, slide out of his skin, become someone else.

SpongeBob touches Squidward’s hair, pushes back the strands that fall in his face. “Oh, oh, Squidward. You're really hot.”

“Thank you. It's about time _somebody_ noticed.”

“Haha, I mean, yeah, you are so sexy, but I mean that you're hot as in warm. Burning up.”

Sexy. He's sexy? Fuck . . . Dizzy, delirious; things make sense. “I guess I . . . I don’t feel too well . . .”

“Migraine?”

“No, not really. It’s not the migraine, but these migraine aftershocks. I’ll get these stomachaches, and I have to eat immediately or I’ll collapse, but then it fades. Or, if I move my eyes a certain way, it makes me want to gouge them out with a frozen spoon.”

“I think you're sick.”

“Am I? That’s just great. We just get started on this tour and I’m sick. Haha, of course!” Squidward rolls off of SpongeBob and lies beside him, shoulder to shoulder. The popcorn ceiling nauseates him. “We should talk, anyways.”

SpongeBob says, "Um, so . . . if you're mine . . . uh.”

“What are you trying to say, SpongeBob?” 

“How far . . . um . . . ?”

“Oh. Oh! Well, I'm yours, aren't I?”

“I want to do . . . everything.” 

“Everything. You know I gotta ask you.”

“Ask me what?”

“Have you ever . . . ?”

SpongeBob takes Squidward’s hand. Squidward looks at that instead of the ceiling. SpongeBob has goosebumps. “Sorta. I guess it's how you define it. I've done stuff.”

“How do you define it?”

“I don't know. Virginity isn't real, like. It's such an old fashioned construct and, and. I . . . uh. Um, haha—”

“SpongeBob?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s okay. I know. Do you, by your own definition, think of yourself as someone who has had sex?”

“No. I think of myself as someone who has fooled around a little.”

“That's . . . okay. Nothing wrong with that.” He’s having an out-of-body experience; this is not a conversation he is having.

“You're someone who has . . . um, done it.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m still figuring it out, um.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll help, if I can. We should take it easy.”

“You’re right,” SpongeBob shudders. “Go easy.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence. They’re just lying against each other, hands joined, when there’s a sound from the bedside table, breaking the reprieve.

 _Ring . . . ring, ring_. It’s SpongeBob’s phone. It almost falls from the strength of its vibration. Squidward grabs the sucker and looks at the micro-screen on the cover.

“Who is it?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Annie?”

“I gotta take it,” SpongeBob insists.

“Really? Now?”

“I have to.”

Squidward passes the phone over. “Ffff, by all means.”

“Hello? . . . Hi! . . . I’m fine, how are you? . . . oh my gosh, really?”

Squidward shuts his eyes and zones out.

_Maybe this tour will make me famous and then she'll realize . . . take me back . . ._

Squilvia? Why is he even thinking about her? Oh, this is awful.

_Everyone leaves you. You're unlovable—nah, her loss, everyone's loss—you're talented and smart and pretty much the best at everything you do and—_

_SpongeBob is so incredibly lucky he gets to do this with you!_

He wants to hear from DST that she’s been asking about him.

No, actually, he doesn’t want to hear anything about her.

Is someone worth all the shit?

Is Squilvia worth it?

_What’s wrong with me?_

He falls back onto the bed.

SpongeBob snaps his phone shut. “That was Anniette. I told you about her.”

“Nah.”

“She lives here in Bass Vegas? The girl who commented on our InnerTube videos? She works at Eel Emporium? There’s only five locations in the whole world! I told you I want to go there and get Jeffrey the Jellyfish stuff for Patrick.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. When did you tell me this?”

“We were at work. I told you I wanted to meet her.”

“At work?”

“Yeah!”

“Was I awake?” Is he even awake right now? SpongeBob beside him is soft and cool, but his brain still went to Squilvia once he wasn’t distracted. He can’t stay focused.

“You were wearing Dancer’s Digest on your face, but you said stuff like, ‘uh huh,’ and ‘that’s good.’”

“Yeah, I was out cold.”

“I have to go see her.”

“All right, I get it.”

“You want to come? She’d love to meet you.”

“No.” He lost his head for a moment, there. No, no. He’s gotta stay and rest.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you later, then.”

“Yeah, bye, SpongeBob.”

-

_Dedication_

To Boots, Gilded Doorknob, Mix Tape, and Lemon Cake, who made me new, and to my Sunlight, who loved me broken.

-

**THE BROKEN AND BRAND NEW**

All rights reserved.  
Copyright © 2024 by Squidward Q. Tentacles.  
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

-

 

 

CONTENTS

| 1\. Look at Me Now, Mama! | 1 |   
---|---|---|---  
2\. Boots | 22  
3\. Gilded Doorknob | 50  
4\. 45 Songs I Can't Listen To | 62  
5\. My Funny Valentine | 88  
6\. Lemon Cake | 100  
7\. Take Two | 144  
8\. One Shot of SpongeBob | 206  
  
. . .

-

. . .

I saw Gilded Doorknob, on the shoreline, in Pacific Grotto, goggles in his hair, scarf whipping in the wind. He looked like an aviator. For all I know, he had come from some private flight following tea with a queen, and was ready to ride seahorses on the beach.

I dared to dream he wouldn’t spot me. My life was never so luxurious. “We should get drinks, my treat. You don't look like you could afford the free water,” he said to me, after his usual, “oh my, would that be Squidward Tentacles, from band class?”

Fuck that guy. I should've said no, but I really wanted to drink. When you've got nothing but grief eating you, and your Mama wires you money for toothpaste, you don't have money to drink. Alcohol is a downer, but you get to feel okay for the better half of an hour, which is better than feeling like shit 100% of the time.

We went to Zesty Noodle, the corner restaurant on Coastline Avenue that changed names and management about once a season. Across from me, Gilded Doorknob said, “you look different. Are you wearing makeup?” 

“I lost a lot of weight.”

“Looks good on you. I didn't even realize how heavy you were before."

I coulda tossed my drink right into his face, and, honestly, who doesn’t want to do that at least once in their life? My diet wasn't glamorous; I was starving from a sore heart and near-poverty. “Poverty is the best diet,” Boots used to say, when she lifted up her shirt and showed me her ribs. Fuck Gilded Doorknob. He was telling me I looked better dying than healthy.

I tried not to cry. Then, I was always one stray thought from crying. 

I have never had the heart to tell this guy off. It took me way too long to get to the point in my life where I didn't give a fuck about impressing people like him. I wish this anecdote ended with me telling him he was shit and throwing a twenty at him for the dry cleaning after soaking him in gin—clear, but acrid.

What really happened was me being quiet, letting him steamroll over me, telling me all about his business in Pacific Grotto— _why, Squiddy, Pacific Grotto might not be big, but it sure has some elite country clubs. Do you golf?_

There was one bright spot. He invited me to check out his rental condo and I refused. Good. Even someone as bad at love as I am could see the proposition underneath the casual invitation. No. No way. I couldn't sleep with him, not even if I wanted to. It wouldn't have worked. I could imagine his fucking condescending laughter so clearly I was almost offended even though it was just a theoretical situation. I was synced up with Alternate Universe Squidward and that idiot had accepted and I got to have visions of the fall out. Alternate Universe Squidward was the guy who did the things I didn't. Sometimes, I envied him. This time, I pitied him.

-

Squidward wakes up. There's this second before his brain gets going and there's nothing wrong with the world, or with his life. 

Then the universe decides it’s time for him to have a nasty cherry-flavored teaspoon of Reality™.

Haha, that wasn't a nightmare? He's gonna laugh hysterically, holy shit. What? What? Haha, no! He's definitely not in this situation. No way, no way did he kiss SpongeBob, no way did he agree to be SpongeBob's, no.

He did it, didn't he? This is real. He laid SpongeBob back and kissed him breathless.

And now Squidward’s on SpongeBob’s bed, frazzled from a nap, lying uncomfortably in the wrong direction, long legs bent and cramping.

He sits up and looks at his phone. He has a text from Squilzabeth:

_Hi Squidward! Did you guys make it to BV safely? Good luck on your next show. XOXO_

Ugh. He’ll reply to her later. Snuffs out the urge to text and ask about Squilvia.

SpongeBob’s still out.

Oh, no, no.

He has to end this right away. What was he on?! His Squilvia Sadness™ poisoned his thoughts. Temporary Insanity. It’s a thing! Oh, Neptune, no.

_I’ll be yours._

Haha, what? No, no, no, no.

“Hurry back, SpongeBob. Hurry, hurry . . .”

-

“SpongeBob?”

“Uh huh?” SpongeBob answers once he locks the door behind himself.

“You’ve been gone a while.”

“Sorry. Did you miss me?”

“Miss you? Hey, look, uh. About this . . . us, uh. I don’t think—”

“—please don’t do this.” SpongeBob sets something on the dresser then rounds on Squidward.

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“I do know. You’re about to tell me that you made a mistake and we can’t do this.” He takes a breath that rattles. He’s swaying.

“I . . .”

“And you can, um, do that. If you want. You can, but please don’t.”

“You’re really going to respect my wishes?”

“Yes. Of course, yes . . . I think you’re getting in your own head about things, and it’s scary and you wanna run, but there was a part of you that was okay with this. There _is_ part of you okay with this, and I really hope you let that part of you live.”

Live? Like it breathes.

“Eh . . .” Squidward looks at the dresser. “Is that soup?”

“You know it is.”

“You really are thoughtful . . .”

“And you’re sick. You’ve probably been sick this whole time and didn’t even notice.”

“I’m . . . unsure.”

“Did something happen when I was gone?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. It’s more like . . . I’ve always got someone on my mind. When I’m left alone with my thoughts for even a heartbeat, I obsess over people. It’s not fair to you. Sometimes, even with you, I’m not thinking about you at all.”

“Oh.”

“I’m not the nicest guy around, but even I think that’s low.”

“You’re going through something right now, I know that. And if you’re mine, then I’m yours, too, so.”

“. . . you are?”

“Of course.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that you can talk to me about things. Or not. But it means I’m here for this part, too.” SpongeBob sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for Squidward’s hands. “I’m not going to be complicit in making you feel sad or helping you hurt yourself. That would hurt me, too. It’s okay to be unsure about things. It’s okay not to be okay, and it’s okay to miss Squilvia the way you do. If you want to end this arrangement, and that’s what’s best for you and will help, I understand. You don’t have to be mine a heartbeat from now.”

They could . . . be together . . . be good to each other. Squidward doesn’t get unconditionals, so used to things having the worst kind of price. His own love comes with so many conditions.

“This is hard for me. Not just because you’re you, but doing this. Allowing myself to want. I don’t know.”

SpongeBob drops his hands, leans over, grabs Squidward’s shoulders and kisses him. He kisses with urgency and mourning, a kiss that’s a little painful and wet. “Keep talking,” he says.

“You’re so . . . I mean, you can really mess me up, when you kiss like that.”

“I don't expect you to know the answer to this, but . . . what kind of support do you need?”

This question is a screwdriver. Tears roll down Squidward's cheeks.

“I don't know,” Squidward confesses, pulling his shirt up to wipe his face quickly. “What kind of support helps me? I don't even know what I need to be okay for today. I don't know how I'll handle tomorrow.”

“Will you be mine, for this heartbeat?”

“Yeah, okay.”

SpongeBob is excitable. He’s nice. He’s pretty smart, too, and bafflingly adroit in this moment. Squidward really does like him, huh? Somewhere inside, there’s genuine affection. Somewhere.

Maybe, maybe it’s okay to let someone take care of you for a little bit?

“I’m so broken,” Squidward says, kissing SpongeBob fast. “I’m sorry, I’m shit.”

“I’m here for this part, too,” SpongeBob repeats. “If you’re mine, then it’s my job to take care of you.”

“Likewise, kid. That’s a thing, okay? I was gonna look after you, regardless. It’s different. I know.” Squidward shakes his head. “I’ll try my best, you know, to take care of you. I’ll try, okay?”

“I’ll try not to need it.”

“Thanks in advance, then. Welcome to my crisis.”

“It’s a pleasure to be here.”

“Weirdo. I’m tired.”

“I’ll get the lights,” SpongeBob says. “I’ll take your bed, you stay here.”

“. . . you don’t have to. I mean, well, you’ll be mine this second, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then will you stay beside me?”

SpongeBob pushes his face into the front of Squidward's shirt and hugs him close. When he makes a noise, a sharp intake of breath, Squidward wraps all around him. He feels SpongeBob’s tears soaking through his shirt.

**-**

**Tuesday, June 30, 2015**

Monday rolls into Tuesday. 3 a.m. Squidward? His sleep schedule is FUBAR.

Squidward may have lost an entire day, but it’s fine. They’re fine. He’s still gotta practice his clarinet, so he goes out to the boat and plays in the parking lot, as not to bother SpongeBob.

He sorta likes it, sitting in the backseat, playing as loud as he wants, because who gives a fuck out here? It’s Bass Vegas! It’s already loud. He can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants.

SpongeBob had told him, “Anniette said this crowd likes their music a bit harder,” so Squidward’s gotta practice Mermaid Brigade’s secret weapon, “I Got,” a song with so much clarinet, an electric edge, a drop and modulated bass. Mermaid Brigade has a fluid sound, but this song is something else entirely. Performing it is gonna be fucking hard, even though they’ve done so like a hundred times back home. The difference a crowd makes. 

He plays over and over, until the sun comes up, and he’s gotta wake SpongeBob. He’s numb, can’t even feel his legs when he walks. He can’t feel anything, physically or mentally. He hopes today will go well; he has the advantage of feeling invincible from sleeplessness. 

-

“Ready?” Squidward asks.

“Born ready. You know me.”

“That I do.”

The club, Lizardfish, stylized as l i z a r d f i s h, is casual, relaxed. There’s four bands playing, including Mermaid Brigade, and instead of keeping their gear backstage, everyone’s instruments are grouped together beside the stage stairs. There’s a low, carpeted wall separating them from the crowd, although there are people sitting on the wall. There’s clearly an honor code; no one sits facing the gear, and no one tries to touch anything.

The ceiling is exposed pipes and fans, some fluorescent in black lights. Nearly everyone is wearing white. They’ve got a glowing, hyper audience.

Mermaid Brigade goes first.

You’d need two ukuleles to get “Fever” to sound sensual and not sweet. This is where Squidward’s mix comes into play—they recorded the regular chords, and SpongeBob, for shows, plucks at the strings instead of strumming, to keep the original melody intact. Squidward’s heard other ukulele covers of “Fever,” and the original melody is kept only by the singing, not the instrument. He prefers Mermaid Brigade’s version to all others.

Squidward combined everything, between shifts and on Sundays, and when he was relegated to the couch in his own house. Mixing Mermaid Brigade’s songs and producing the best CD for their tour was therapeutic. Somewhere along the way, this dumb little band ended up meaning so much to him.

Squidward snaps with one hand, to keep time, adjusts the track playing on his Mackerel Book with the other.

SpongeBob plays his ukulele and sings, “fever, if you live and learn / fever, ‘til you sizzle / what a lovely way to burn.”

SpongeBob's got that range, can go deep and raspy, get Squidward in the chest. He sounds like how Squidward feels, dark, sick.

This whole tour has been a fever dream and they’ve barely started.

“What a lovely way to burn.”

With Squidward’s modeling processor, they can perform their songs live and forgo the recording; their songs have different tracks for performances, some with entire arrangements, others with only percussion, or only bass, that kinda thing.

When they switch to “I Got,” Squidward needs SpongeBob to run the background track, the special version that keeps the electronic components, the modulated bass, the glitchy clarinet. SpongeBob can play the piano parts in time, using Squidward’s smartphone’s touchscreen, and Squidward can loop his pitch-shifted clarinet to sound like the bass of the baritone sax he used when they were in the studio. He’s just gotta pay attention to the pedal and stomp buttons, and that’s easy because he has four legs. Figuratively. He’s on top of things, is the point. Can multitask.

They get to make a show of quickly recording each piece, setting them up, pausing them until the right moment.

This always looks more impressive than just playing clarinet to a recording, but a band of two has to improvise until, say, they’re famous enough to have their own studio band. Whoa, there’s a thought.

SpongeBob doesn’t get to sing in “I Got,” and he doesn’t play his ukulele, either. It’s Squidward’s song, through and through. SpongeBob, as the singer, is the unofficial band lead. He’s the face of Mermaid Brigade. With this song, Squidward gets to be the star.

He’s exhausted and shaking, is really relying on muscle memory more than anything. He’s spent enough time with his processor and can do everything for this song blindly. If he can’t control his breathing, his pitch will be off, the tone will be off, the solos will sound like shit. And he plays for “I Got,” doesn't know how his clarinet sounds so good because he's surely stopped breathing. There's cheers, the audience loves him, and he gets to play, and he doesn't mess up, and he's so good and he loves them all and they love him, too.

He's like . . . he's the real person. He has thoughts that no one can tap into, and everyone else is a blur, and SpongeBob, how lovely, steps back so Squidward can have this all for himself. He's smiling, happy, wants Squidward to soak up all this love. 

Oh.

Oh, Squidward's doomed.

He's just not gonna be happy with less than this. He needs SpongeBob, at least in some capacity, to be happy. Oh, he's fucked.

He smells sweat and alcohol and he can't give up now. He's tired but he's gotta keep going, don't stop, don't. 

This is worthwhile, this is everything, this is his whole life.

He absorbs every heartbeat through his legs, up into his own chest, and he can’t tell if his heart is still beating or if that’s everyone else. His breath is somehow coming out clear and clean, even though he can’t breathe at all. His solo is rich, perfect, and the crowd screams, thrilled. Up, up.

He dares to look at SpongeBob, who’s someone else right now—how does he do that? His blond hair is stuck to his forehead, his eyes dark. His fingers move on their own; he’s staring at Squidward, got that smile, and Squidward almost smiles back, but he’s got to keep it up, uses his teeth as a way to keep himself in reality, bites his mouthpiece, in between solos.

He’s playing his clarinet, and there are people screaming for him. He’s in love right now, this, this crowd, the music he’s making, the guy beside him, wanting to kiss that guy, knowing that, finally, so late in his life, he’s finally who he is, is the real him, gets to be the real version of himself. Love and love and a million good feelings, two million, love, so much love for music.

This energy is a painkiller. He could stay awake for days.

The perfect morphine.

-

Once they’re back in their room, Squidward turns and leans on the door. He can hear his own heartbeat, thumping so loud and intense. It moves his whole body.

SpongeBob throws his key onto his bed. When he notices that Squidward’s not coming into the room, he turns and gives him a questioning look. “I know that . . . I mean, you don't feel the same and this is like my probationary period, you trying things out. I know you didn't stay up thinking about me and I don't, uh, have the kind of look you're into, but . . .”

“That was amazing,” Squidward says. He’s so high. He laughs. “Beautiful.”

SpongeBob’s smile spreads slow.

“You were beautiful.”

“Me?” SpongeBob blushes.

“Yeah. You felt that, right? That energy?”

“I did. Like an energy feedback loop.”

“Exactly! The crowd’s energy fed us and then our performance fed them!” It was like magic, holy shit.

“You come alive on stage, Squidward.”

“I get so anxious before performing, and I’ve never had performances like this. This . . . I felt like I was the real me, for once. Does that make sense?”

“It does.”

“SpongeBob, I want to . . . I want you to know . . . this is for you. I want you right now. Just you.”

“You’re thinking about me?”

“I promise you, you’re the only one I’m thinking about right now.” SpongeBob SpongeBob SpongeBob SpongeBob SpongeBobSpongeBobSpongeBobSpongeBob.

Squidward uses the door as a springboard and pushes himself towards SpongeBob, who rushes to him as well. SpongeBob stands on his tiptoes, Squidward leans down, and they kiss. SpongeBob fists his hands in Squidward’s shirt. Squidward slides his hands under SpongeBob’s suspenders, pushes them off SpongeBob’s shoulders, and then pulls SpongeBob flush against him, arms supporting SpongeBob’s lower back so that it’s easier to stand in this position longer.

This kiss is like the energy feedback loop, one energy feeds the other.

“I want you so much. I've wanted you for so long. I know I've been selfish and horrible about it, never letting you alone, but I craved you. I was so hungry for you. I am still. I want all of you.”

Squidward kisses him. It feels good, it feels good. 

_SpongeBobSpongeBobSpongeBobSpongeBob_

-

**Wednesday, July 1, 2015**

“Squidward . . . ?”

Oh, here it comes.

“What?”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you right now, but . . .”

“Get on with it.”

“Can I kiss you before I go? A good luck kiss?”

That’s just the cutest thing, holy shrimp. “Yeah, get over here.”

SpongeBob drops to his knees at the side of Squidward’s bed and peers over at him. Squidward motions him closer and SpongeBob leans down for the kiss.

“That’s real sweet, SpongeBob. Good luck.”

SpongeBob kisses Squidward’s forehead next, then stands. “Thank you. Rest up. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

-

You can love somebody so, so much, but hate yourself. Hatred is organic. It’s deceptively easy for someone to phase you out of their life.

_Don’t act like you haven’t done it, too._

_What?_

_You’ve ditched people. Some of them are probably still hurting over it._

_Yeah, right. Like I have that kind of power over people._

_You do. You think you’re the only one affected by people?_

If you lose him, it’ll hurt worse.

-

“Hello?”

“Hi, Squidward. Did I wake you?”

“No, it’s fine. What do you need?” Squidward covers his eyes with his forearm, holds the phone to his ear by squashing it with his shoulder.

“Anniette wants us to see her club.”

“She has a club?”

“Yeah, the Flying Hippo. It’s in the Grant District.”

“Give me twenty.”

"Bring your clarinet and my ukulele!"

-

Squidward pulls up to the front of Eel Emporium and rolls down the window. Eel Emporium is mostly moving displays, sea creature mascots, colors and lights. There’s a Ferris wheel inside, visible from the street. Kids run in and out, get in line for the ride, and their parents, holding countless bags, trail them slowly, eyes dead. Whoo, Squidward hates it. He’s so confident that SpongeBob rode the Ferris wheel multiple times, he’d bet his goddamn house on it.

SpongeBob stands by the side of the entrance, huddled with a mermaid. She’s gotta be Anniette. She’s taller than SpongeBob, and blonder, hair in flawless ringlets, and damn, she’s got that sharp eyeliner. If she wasn’t wearing a headband topped with a plush, cartoon-styled jellyfish, she’d straight up look like a model.  

SpongeBob waves at Squidward, jumping up and down.

“Get in, kid.”

“You can have the front,” SpongeBob tells Anniette, opening the door for her. No, ew. Strangers in the back, please. Why can’t SpongeBob read his mind yet?

“Hi, Squidward! I’m Anniette.” She buckles up. Up close, Squidward can see the eel pattern on her skirt.

“Hello. I gathered that.”

“It’s good to finally meet you! All I’ve been hearing is ‘my boyfriend this,’ and ‘my boyfriend that.’”

Wait, what? “Huh? Boyfriend? Uh.”

“He’s shy,” SpongeBob offers from the backseat, rifling through his Eel Emporium shopping bag, so fucking blasé!

“That’s okay. No need to be nervous around me. I’m a huge fan. I’m biased, clearly,” Anniette jokes. “Mermaids, am I right?”

“Ha,” Squidward says, with zero humor.

Anniette tells him where to go; he gets on the highway and heads for a less skeevy part of the city.

He only sorta listens to SpongeBob and Anniette’s _scintillating_ convo about being bottle blonds. He’d rather they talk with each other than include him. He’s glad his ‘boyfriend’ isn’t regaling him with the story of his Eel Emporium adventure. There’s that.

Anniette thinks they’re _boyfriends_.

Pfft. He hasn’t been another guy’s boyfriend since he was in his twenties, younger than SpongeBob is now.

 _She’s not wrong_ , informs his inner voice. Fuck.

-

They park in a garage and head into the bustle, the Grant District, a district with brick roads and sculptures—a part of the city with art enrichment, so named because of the grants that converted it from a tent city. It’s got endless venues for consumable art, musicals, plays, clubs showcasing bands you’ve never heard of. You know, shoving aside a real issue to get that sweet hipster dosh.

Anniette leads the way, and Squidward takes SpongeBob’s hand. “Boyfriend, huh?”

SpongeBob beams. What a smile it is. “You’re mine, right?”

“I mean . . .”

“You mean ‘yes.’” SpongeBob raises the hand holding his ukulele case high into the sky.

“Yeah.”

“Anniette is dating her bandmate, Spencer. It’s cool, we’ve got that in common. They’re a band of two, too!”

“How interesting.”

“I can’t wait for you to hear their sound. You’ll love it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

-

“Hi,” Anniette greets a guy, behind the bar, who is wiping down a highball glass. She leans over, kissing his cheek. She slinks right up onto the bar, then does a 180 so she’s facing Squidward and SpongeBob. She says, to the guy, “may I present to you, my favorite indie darlings: Mermaid Brigade.”

“Hey! I’m Spencer. Glad you could make it. It’s so cool to meet you. I was stoked you were local.” Spencer plucks the headband from Anniette’s hair and shoves it away, in a cupboard under the register.

“Squidward,” SpongeBob tells him, “together, they’re A Mighty Distraction!”

A Mighty Distraction own the Flying Hippo with a group of friends. They use their land gimmick to draw in those intrepid customers—flying _and_ hippos? How Surface-y. Their logo looks like the hippo SpongeBob made out of bubbles years ago, but with little wings. That was so long ago, that bubble hippo, like, when SpongeBob was still new to him.

“Let’s show you what we got,” Anniette says.

-

“If you could play something.”

SpongeBob plays something bright.

It starts looping. Spencer uses his digital audio workstation—his DAW—shows SpongeBob how, when he applies effects, SpongeBob’s little solo changes. Spencer shows him how it would sound with a filter, with different levels, uses the tremolo to make moving chords.

“You could make so many samples from your ukulele,” Spencer says. “Use a controller instead of a pedalboard or effects processor. Whatever’s easier. Listen to this . . .”

Squidward loves their modeling processor, uses a mic to record his clarinet, modifies the output as needed. Likes to hook up the pickup to the neck of his clarinet and keep things at hand, or at foot, rather. He can change the pitch of his clarinet with his pedals, make it sound like other instruments. Feedback can be a real problem that way, though.

“A problem with a clarinet pickup is that you can get a lot of key noise instead of actual sound. They have some that work like a barrel replacement, but I’ve never found one before.” That’s the kind of shit Squilliam has and Squidward just . . . does not. “I’d need a better pickup before getting serious with a DAW.”

“Like now, it’s no big deal. You play with your track and all you gotta do is make sure you get the feedback. It’s a simple system. But if you ever want to do more electronic music, like ‘I Got,’ then you’ll need to upgrade.”

“Yeah . . .” Squidward mixed their songs with freeware, tirelessly recorded each component when they were in the studio. Isn’t used to electronic music production or controllers. And he’s sorta the guy who would normally think his classic view was better, like, look, he makes _real_ music, but he knows that better production would take Mermaid Brigade to the next level. It’s this sorta scary knowledge that if he decides to embrace tech, then his band can sound crazy legitimate. He’s daunted, but what else is new?

Anniette is showing SpongeBob how she set up her controller so that it’s intuitive for live performance. “I split my sample up into fourths and now I can play it like this,” and she pushes the buttons in a certain order, gets the vocals to loop and layer, and her song hasn’t even really taken off yet, but has an echo-y, ethereal sound to it that makes Squidward long to hear it accompanying his clarinet.

Anniette’s got her layered synth going, shows SpongeBob her drop, and it’s so cool and Squidward doesn’t know if he’ll take the electric thing far enough, but shit, he’s got the right vibe and singer and skills. Even for something like “I Got,” a controller would be much easier to use on stage than the combination of his old computer and smartphone. He could focus on playing his clarinet, and SpongeBob could use the controller for the piano, the baritone sax, all the background, so that Squidward can have his solos! Controllers can contain all the minutiae so he can do his best and not worry. SpongeBob is tactile enough, can set up the buttons so it’s easy. And Squidward could do the same, when they make songs that are especially for SpongeBob. Because they’re going to have more than the one album, right? He can see what different mouthpieces work best for performing with a controller, see what mic is best . . . use a DAW’s looper . . . he does like the stomp buttons and pedal on his modeling processor, but a controller is much lighter.

Anniette’s controller has 64 push pads, and Squidward is having a hard time thinking of how to incorporate that much—until she starts using the pads on the top left of her controller, and the mood shifts, and the song has this Eastern kick.

He doesn’t do so, because he’s with people, but he suddenly wants very much to kiss SpongeBob. It’s probably because he’s excited for them as Mermaid Brigade, and that means he’s excited for them as . . . them.

“It’s last minute, but if you want, you could do ‘When I Was Young’ with us on Friday night.”

Squidward and SpongeBob look at each other. They nod in unison. They’d have to get driving immediately afterward, but a show is a show. A show in Bass Vegas’ Grant District? Even better.

-

SpongeBob sings, Anniette glitches out his voice. SpongeBob laughs, she glitches out his laugh. It’s such a ridiculous sound and Squidward can’t help but laugh at it, too.

Spencer sits in the chair next to him. “Martini?” he offers.

“Can’t have more than this if I want to keep my wits about me. I’m the DD. The eternal DD.”

“Sucks. How long have you two been dating?”

“Oh, like one and a half days.”

“Haha, what? Really?”

“Not being facetious. This is a brand new thing.”

“Shit!” Spencer raises his own glass. “A salute to the brand new.”

What the heck! He toasted with Squilzabeth, back in NKC, and he’s gonna toast again in Bass Vegas, with Spencer.

“To the brand new.”

-

“I didn’t hate tonight,” Squidward tells SpongeBob, who is energetically waving their joined hands back and forth. It’s as close as Squidward’s going to get to admitting that tonight was sorta maybe a little bit fun and that the friends they’re making are sorta maybe a little bit awesome.

“I loved tonight!” SpongeBob replies.

“We should look into that kinda gear,” Squidward says. “Our next album could really benefit from it. I could figure it out.”

“Our next album?”

“Well . . . What do you think?”

“Really?!”

“If you want.”

“This is the Best Day Ever!”

“You say that every day.”

“It’s always true.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m surprised you liked the electronic part so much though?”

“I just think, with the right people—you know, like us—it can really elevate things. I guess I . . . don’t hate electro swing, or whatever . . . I mean. Jazz is so good and I love how it can be so modern and new people can discover it. Yeah . . .”

“You like electro swing?”

“. . . I’m just saying that I wouldn’t mind if our sound was a little more . . . you know,” Squidward waves the hand clutching his clarinet in a circle.

“You like electro swing!”

“It’s not the worst.”

“I don’t know why I find that so endearing.”

“Zip it. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Squidward?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re excited about something!”

“Oh, Neptune, get over it.”

“Never! That is the cutest thing, oh my gosh. You are adorable.”

As soon as they get into the boat, Squidward turns the radio on—gotta shut SpongeBob up.

It can’t drown out that laugh.

-

Squidward’s still blotto from manic energy, back at the motel.

“So, I messed this up in the club, but, uh,” Squidward scrolls through the songs on his phone. “I bought all of DST’s albums. Hold on . . . okay, here we go . . .” DST’s song “Thumbelina” starts playing. “SpongeBob, will you dance with me?”

SpongeBob walks from the door and right up onto his bed. Squidward puts his phone on the table and stands in the space between both beds. SpongeBob is taller than him this way, so Squidward’s the one with his face against SpongeBob’s chest. They hold onto each other and rock side to side.

SpongeBob withdraws enough to take Squidward’s hand, twirls him a little. Squidward snorts.

“This song is like . . . oddly sad.”

“I think that way about ‘My Funny Valentine.’ Oddly sad.” SpongeBob says.

“I love that song. Probably my favorite of ours.” Squidward coughs. “You sing it well.”

“I’m sure you know why.”

Squidward shakes his head. Even if he knows why, he’s not ready for that kind of proclamation. “We should write a song for you. Like, ‘I Got’ for ukulele. We could make samples from your voice, and do something really great . . .”

“A song for me?” SpongeBob jumps onto Squidward, wrapping his legs around him. Squidward gets his arms under SpongeBob’s ass so he doesn’t drop the kid (“ugh”). “It’s like I’m a member of this band!”

“Well, you are—stop laughing, come on.”

“We need a lot of money to get stuff as good as A Mighty Distraction.”

“We better get famous then. Look, Sunlight, we got a ton of musical talent already. That kinda gear will make things easier, and yeah, maybe we can experiment with things, but we’re already ahead of DJs and producers and those kinda people. At the end of the day, we can unplug and still play.”

“We could have some really great concerts. Our sound . . . we could do so much.”

“That’s the right idea.”

“You look good like this”

“I look the same as always.”

“You don’t.”

“You gonna kiss me already, SquarePants?”

-

On their respective beds, Squidward and SpongeBob lie on their sides and face each other.

“Do you think it’s weird that I’m already twenty-eight and I haven’t really had sex before?”

“Eh, not weird, I mean, for you.”

“Is that . . . a bad thing?”

“No, no, that’s not what I’m saying. I mean that you, you specifically, go at your own pace. That’s not bad or good, it just is.”

“How old were you?”

“I don’t know, seventeen?”

“That’s more than a decade younger than I am now.”

“That doesn’t matter. Why are you worried about this? It’s your sex life, it happens when you’re ready. For some people, it never happens at all. You need to take your own advice and ignore theoretical haters.”

“. . . they’re not theoretical.”

“What? Are you telling me that people know you haven’t done it _and they give you a hard time about it?_ ”

“Well, yeah.”  
  
“Who?! Sandy? Patrick?”

“No, not them, they’re good friends.”

Squidward legitimately cannot think of other people SpongeBob might talk to about sex. “I don’t get it. Wait, do you mean, like, Stephanie? You barely know her.”

“No, she’s not like that. I mean, like, you know Monica?”

“Monica? _Our_ Monica?”

“And, like, people at school. You know my classmates always cycle out. I mean, I’m the fixture. I get it a lot at school, actually. I mean, it’s not bad enough that I’d call it bullying. I can deal with it. I don’t know, I get teased for being a good student. Noodle. A good student probably wouldn’t still be there. It’s just.”

“Why the hell are you talking about that to them?!”

“It’s not like I was talking to them about it. That’s gross. It was more like they started making fun of me, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“Should we fire Monica?”

“Maybe. I’ll think on it.”

“What’s with that, by the way?”

“With what? My sex life?”

“No. The driving thing.”

“It’s nerves. I do know how to drive, and I’m fine when I daydream about it. I see myself going on road trips, kinda like this one, but I’m driving and I feel free, but when I’m actually in the driver’s seat, I go blank.”

“You think you self-sabotage?” That kinda thing . . . is that why SpongeBob has to take pills?

“Why would I do that?”

Squidward half-shrugs, as much as he can in this position. “So you can stay a kid longer?”

“Are you saying I’m less grown up because I don’t drive?”

“No. A lot of adults don’t drive. I’m suggesting that driving symbolizes something big for you and you’re not ready for that.”

“If I’m not ready, then isn’t that fine? Like my sex life.”

“Sure, SpongeBob,” Squidward says. “I’m just asking why it’s taking so long, if you really do try. You’re quick on the uptake, when you try. It’s a bit different than sex, you know, being enrolled in a school. That and you’re frustratingly good at most things.”

“Maybe driving just isn’t one of those things.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Just because we’re trying out us doesn’t mean you get to lecture me about where I should be in my life.”

“I’m not! SpongeBob, lighten up.”

“Do you think it’d be better if I could drive?”

“I don’t know. It’d make this tour easier if I didn’t have to drive the entire time.”

“You think I’m not doing my share?”

“No, no, I never said that. Let’s forget this whole thing.”

“You said it’d be easier if I could drive, though.”

“It would be easier, and I do think the reason you don’t have your license yet is something in you, but I’m not necessarily complaining.”

“How is this not complaining?”

“Look, it’d be easier, yeah, and if I was tired and you could take over, that’d be great. But you can’t and I knew that from the beginning and I don’t expect it of you.”

“Squidward . . . ?”

“What do you want?”

“Are we fighting right now?”

“I do have an urge to slam a door in your face.”

“I’m not doing my part . . .”

“I already told you I don’t think that!”

“I think that. You mixed the songs, did the album art, are driving for this whole tour.”

“Yeah, and I’m a great guy and it’s hard to live up to me, but you get close, you know, with all the merch ordering, finding Monica—even if we have to fire her—and all your cheerleading and your _je ne sais quoi_.”

“Are you saying you . . . like me for me?”

“If you want to interpret it that way, I can’t stop you. Stop yapping about the driving thing already, yeesh.”

“Thanks.”

“Go to bed.”

“Come over here.”

-

“Fever isn’t such a new thing . . .”

“You’re singing.”

“What?”

Squidward sings the next line, “fever started long ago.”

“Sorry. I’m nervous. What if you don’t like what you see?”

“What do you mean? Your body? You’re self-conscious?”

“A little. I mean, look at me.”

“You look the way you do and you’re self-conscious?!”

“The way I do? What does that mean?”

“You know, when I say something is just you, it isn’t a bad thing. You look like you. You look like SpongeBob and that’s how I want you to look, considering you are SpongeBob.”

SpongeBob puts his hand to Squidward’s. Squidward can bend his knuckles over SpongeBob’s fingertips.

They hold onto each other while SpongeBob uses his free hand to unbutton his shirt. He teases the waistband of his shorts. Squidward reaches out to pop the button of SpongeBob’s fly. He pulls at the zipper. SpongeBob slides a hand into his underwear.

Squidward gets on him. He kisses SpongeBob’s neck. “You gonna touch yourself?”

SpongeBob kisses Squidward’s hair and forehead. “Will you kiss me?”

“More?”

“More.”

Squidward moves up, kisses SpongeBob on the mouth. SpongeBob makes a noise that Squidward swallows and feels in his own throat.

“Make yourself come?”

“I don’t know if I can, I—I.”

“It’s okay, you’re okay. You look so sexy.”

“Really? You think so?”

“I can’t lie to you lately. Can’t you feel it?”

“Whoa. You’re hard.”

“That okay?”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to be so gentle with me. I can handle it.”

“I’m sorry.” Squidward admits, “Part of me wants to be rougher with you, but another part of me wants to be sure you’re okay.”

“Do what you like. I promise to let you know if I need to stop or anything.”

“SpongeBob?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s your natural hair color?”

“Why don’t you find out for yourself?”

-

**Thursday, July 2, 2015**

“This mouthpiece works better with a stronger reed,” Squidward puts one end of the reed into his mouth, licks it. “Produces better sound, I don’t know, it’s easier to use when doing ‘I Got.’ It's quicker.”

“That’s probably gonna be best for ‘When I Was Young.’”

“You got it by heart yet?”

“Yep.”

“Will you sing for me?”

“Can I sing ‘Fever’ instead?”

“If you need a mighty distraction from A Mighty Distraction.”

SpongeBob grabs his ukulele. He skips the pizzicato that Squidward likes, so he can get right into strumming the background chords. “Never know how much I love you / never know how much I care / when you put your arms around me / I get a fever that’s so hard to bear . . .”

SpongeBob’s the best singer to have in his retinue, because the kid’s range is crazy. With a DAW, Squidward could record SpongeBob’s voice and make _so_ _many_ samples. Imagine it with just a little effects added . . . just a little bit of SpongeBob as his own background singer. Squidward can do the backup just fine, has a better voice than anyone would expect, but imagine how much more their band could sound like a real brigade. Then add in a bit of lively jazz components . . .

They could be something new.

“. . . you give me fever . . .”

-

SpongeBob takes a late night shower.

He comes back in pajamas, towel-dried hair combed. He looks very fresh-faced, and, without the mascara he apparently wears every day, his eyelashes are pale. He sits by Squidward. He's having a hard time making eye contact.

“Are you tired?” Squidward asks.

“Yeah, a little.”

“Want to go to bed?”

SpongeBob reaches out towards him. “Give me your hands."

When Squidward does as told, SpongeBob snatches his hands and pulls them close to his own chest.

“Touch me,” he says.

Squidward turns fully towards him, uncrosses his legs. He fans his fingers out, moves his palms. He tugs down the top of SpongeBob's shirt, uncovering skin.

When Squidward moves one hand to cup SpongeBob's face, SpongeBob closes his eyes. “I want to do something.”

“Do you know what you want to do?”

SpongeBob shakes his head. “I feel . . . I want you, but . . . I don't know.”

“I'll touch you more,” says Squidward, “You tell me when I need to stop.”

Eyes still closed, SpongeBob nods.

Squidward kisses his whole face, forehead and cheeks and chin and lips and eyelids.

SpongeBob strokes Squidward's hair.

“So far?”

“So far, I'm okay.”

“Good. Hold onto me.”

He presses his thumb against SpongeBob's bottom lip.

“It's not enough. Hug me tighter.” SpongeBob says.

Squidward grabs him, squeezes him, squeezes the breath out of him.

SpongeBob’s hands are everywhere. “I need more.”

Squidward loosens his grip. Lays SpongeBob back. “More? How much more?”

SpongeBob touches his own face. Squidward smooths a hand up SpongeBob's leg and squeezes his thigh.

-

**Friday, July 3, 2015**

_A Mighty Distraction x Mermaid Brigade_ emblazons the flyers, affixed by the dozen on the door and blackened windows.

It’s time.

SpongeBob won’t forget the words—he sings like he wrote the thing, like he’s singing to Squidward about some imaginary past they shared. Maybe they met younger, in an alternate universe. Squidward's in a fair few alternate universes.

Spencer shines the lights on them, figuring out the placement for the show. It burns. Oh god, the fever is real, Squidward's going to faint. 

SpongeBob's touch on his arm shocks him, is so cool Squidward wants to hide in him. “I'm fine,” he says preemptively.

“I'll get you some water. And after this, you gotta rest, you're still sick.”

“I couldn't sleep if I tried.”

“It'll catch up with you, and—”

“It's fine.”

“No, it's not. I'm charged with looking after you and you are not okay.” 

“I can't stop now, babe. We got this show, then we gotta jet.” Squidward’s noticed the trick—use a pet name on SpongeBob—it makes him weak.

“Fine, but once we're at our next stop, you're resting up with meds, and that's the end of it.” 

“You don't actually have to look after me for stuff like this.”

“You're mine.” 

“I guess I am.”

"Deal with it then.”

“Haha, sure. Anything for you.”

“Yay!”

-

The Flying Hippo is gorgeous. The stage wall is tufted white leather, amongst the spotlights are chandeliers with soft pink bulbs, and giant glass props, cut to look like diamonds, are strewn over the floor. Mermaid Brigade is on the left, and A Mighty Distraction on the right. Spencer’s keyboard is metallic and reflects the light. Anniette’s controller sits on top of a faceted glass podium. Squidward is living a music video—a good one, for once! This crowd is glamorous, young, socialites and foreigners, people with champagne flutes.

SpongeBob nods, waits for his turn, sings along to the way Squidward plays, like he's done it before, like a Mermaid Brigade song. And Spencer pitch shifts and modifies Squidward’s clarinet on the spot.

It’s so fun. He's gotta fight, gotta keep on playing, soak up the love. Don’t fucking faint! 

-

He doesn't faint. He actually does fucking great.

The audience shrieks.

“Haha,” SpongeBob hugs him. “Good job!” 

“Yeah, I'm the real MVP.”

“You are!”

This heartbeat is all SpongeBob’s.

-

SpongeBob hugs Anniette and Spencer, Squidward shakes their hands. A Mighty Distraction’s got a whole set to go, but Mermaid Brigade needs to bail. They’re on the way to Pacific Grotto minutes after doing “When I Was Young.”

-

**Friday, May 31, 1996**

Hey, you.

On the road, you write in your small notebook. You travel light—the only things in your suitcase are neatly bundled outfits, toiletries, and the book with the broken spine. And you’ve got your notebook and your favorite pen, the one you lifted from the makeshift desk that was Bran Flakes’ kitchen table.

There’s still pages filled with inane poems and almost-lyrics. Now that Bran Flakes is gone, they’re worthless. No more nights, pressed tight against one another, in front of the typewriter, creating. The last Seashell Writer, photocopied pen doodles and poetry and prose, stapled together, left in piles outside the Creative Writing department, the Student Union, by the free newspapers, the ones that tell you, as a Libra, you are selfless, fucking false, is as far as your underground publishing goes. Now that Bran Flakes is gone, no one wonders what you write about. No one cares.

No one cares about you or what you do.

Look at you, on this bus. The windows are down, and it’s like a blow dryer. Inescapable summer, on the way back to that shitty town that’s exactly the same as you left it.

Hopefully this bus will crash.

You’re alone, and you deserve it because you couldn’t control yourself. Learn from this. You can’t show people the real you, not ever. No one loves your ugliness.

People only love the lovely.

-

“You okay, buddy?”

“Fine,” Squidward snaps.

He lived with Bran Flakes for only a summer, and like everyone else, Bran Flakes wanted Squidward gone once he really got to know him and saw all the ugliness inside. But Squidward remembers these little shops and the quaint, overpriced restaurants, and how it once made him feel important to live here. 

SpongeBob has eyes wide with curiosity. He points out things about all the dumb pedestrians they yield to, like her purse, his hat, wow, what a cute town, so many people just walk around and it's just like a movie!

Squidward keeps the pain raw by thinking bullshit like, 'we'd still be together if I didn't say such stupid things, or if I just acted happier and never showed anyone the shit inside.' He thinks this about all of them: Jessica, Squilliam, Bran Flakes, and finally, Squilvia. SpongeBob is resilient and dedicated, but Squidward figures he'll leave, too, once he really knows Squidward. The best way to keep someone around is to keep lying to them. He's always loved people intensely, had favorite people. But he's never been anyone's favorite.

If Squidward gets to a point where he loves SpongeBob . . . loves him so much it hurts . . . he knows SpongeBob will still prioritize Patrick or the Krusty Krab or whatever else, and Squidward might be old but he still secretly hopes he'll be someone's favorite—it's not going to happen, not with SpongeBob, not ever. SpongeBob loves his friends and job and house and Gary and that's just the way he is—doesn't put people in ranks, like Squidward does. 

When Squilvia asked him why he carried Bran Flakes around in his heart, even after all these years had passed, he said, "we could be ugly together." They didn't make each other better versions of themselves—they brought out the worst in each other and it was exhilarating! He missed that. She still left though, right? His ugliness was too much. Squilvia didn't suffer fools but she was still better than Squidward. Too good for him. SpongeBob is too good for him, too. SpongeBob doesn’t make Squidward feel safe in his ugliness.

There are so many pedestrians and other boats out that their drive through Pacific Grotto is taking a hundred years. Squidward won't be able to fully breathe until they are en route to the next stop.

"Sponge, talk to me." He sees the corner restaurant, now named Bean, the one where he and Bran Flakes made fun of all the other patrons for having _those_ conversations, ones about the weather and how-is-your-family. Where they made fun of everyone for being artificial and just like a sitcom—

"What a sweet little town—"

"About anything other than the town. Or the people in it. Talk about yourself, or whatever."

_I hate this town._

_I'm the common denominator. I lure people in and then they see the real me and then I go too far in my misery and they leave—_

“You need to sleep. Are we close?”

“Yeah, just gotta make it through this . . .”

“Can I change the flavor of your memories here?”

“That's weird phrasing.”

“I'm hungry. These restaurants look good. Why are there so many paper lanterns out?”

“Some festival. This is a town that goes all out. Small town.”

“You’ve been here before for festivals?”

“Enough about Pacific Grotto! You!”

“We should eat." SpongeBob has his feet up on the seat, knees pulled up. He's squished down so he has room to write in his notebook, which is against his legs.

“You’re eating candy right now.” SpongeBob smells like artificial sour apple, the flavor of the candies in the Kolor Inn lobby.

“Oh, haha, I didn’t even notice.”

“Did you notice that the pen you’re using right now is the one from the motel?”

“Oh! It is!”

“You really don’t notice how you lift little things like that?”

“Oh gosh, I’ve been stealing things? This is horrible!”

“It’s not stealing, _per se_. Just sorta . . . taking.”

“This is gonna sound so dumb, but I never feel like I have enough pens. My brain probably tells me I need it when I see one just sitting there. I’m an awful person!”

“Don’t I know it.”

“ _Squidward!_ ”

“What? I’m the one on tour with a big, bad criminal, here.”

“I feel bad.”

“Don’t. I’m kidding. I just don’t want to be here anymore. I wish we didn’t have to pass through. When Monica showed us the plan, I should’ve said something. I stupidly thought, ‘oh, enough time has passed, it’ll be fine.’ Past Squidward is such a saboteur.”

“. . . um, you don’t have to tell me why, but. I mean, it might help.”

“Bran Flakes Topley.”

“Bran Flakes? Like the cereal?”

“Exactly. His real name was Brandon, but no one called him that.”

“Oh. Who is he?”

“One of my infamous exes.”

“Will he be at the show?”

“No, you don’t need to worry about that."

"What if we run into him?"

"Bran Flakes is dead, SpongeBob.”

-

“What a lovely way . . .”

-

Squidward loved the apartment where he heard every step the neighbors above took, with the white carpet and the tiny kitchen. He loved when he got drunk on Bloody Marys and rolled around and laid back on the floor and lifted his legs up to pretend he was walking on the ceiling. When Bran Flakes was gone all day with work, and in the summer heat, Squidward cooked for them, using their overcharged ingredients from the health foods store. That’s what Pacific Grotto is, a time capsule, a place where Squidward hears Bran Flakes’ laughter and tastes red pepper flakes and watches bootleg movies they bought from a guy in a parking lot.

You’re still you after a breakup, only you’re not. You look the same on paper, but you’ve got bands you can’t listen to anymore, and foods you can’t eat, and names you hate to hear, and movies you hate to watch.

And, when it crosses his mind, Squidward gets to be doubly heartbroken, gets to feel for Bran Flakes and Squilvia at the same time.

SpongeBob touches Squidward’s hand.

_You’re real. Right here._

He didn’t cry. He quit his job and spent most of his time in his apartment, waiting for May, waiting for his lease to be up. He had his mother pay all his bills once his savings ran out. He sat in the dark most nights, and never answered his door. For some reason, people knocked on it a lot. Why? He had no friends. He had no need to talk to his neighbors.

He walked around his apartment aimlessly, shuffling to music pumped in through his downstairs neighbors. Most of the time, it was songs he knew, but they didn't gut him. He was gutted when he heard a song from one of Bran Flakes’ mix tapes; 45 songs he can't listen to ever again, unless for some reason he wants to gross sob with snot.

Music, fuck, he can't play his old favorites, they hurt too much. He just sticks to “My Funny Valentine” and tries not to let his love for it remind him of afternoons sitting outside of the band classroom and listening to it, thinking of Squilliam playing it. It was never theirs, he tries to remind himself. He can still like it. It's always been his.

And years later, he holds SpongeBob SquarePants’ hand as he drives through these ghosts, and gets to be alive and dead, all at once.

“Don’t get too lost.” _In your head_.

“You know how you ask me to hug you tighter?”

“Yeah.” SpongeBob squeezes.

“I’m going to pull over.”

When he does, SpongeBob lets go of his hand. Embraces him. Stops Squidward’s breath with his hug.

-

“. . . to burn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't already seen the gorgeous fanart [@legsweat](https://legsweat.tumblr.com/) made for me, please go [here](https://legsweat.tumblr.com/post/169364098980/some-fanart-for-spngbb-and-her-amazing-squidbob) and [here](https://legsweat.tumblr.com/post/169848541460/aaahh-had-to-re-upload-rip-me-heres-another). These pictures are so goddamn beautiful, I can't breathe. I'm going to put them into the story starting next chapter ;o;!
> 
> My SpongeBob tumblr is: [@spngbb](http://spngbb.tumblr.com)


End file.
